


Limerence

by sherlockandjohn2010



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, S4 fix-it, Slow Burn, TLD fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockandjohn2010/pseuds/sherlockandjohn2010
Summary: Limerence (noun);The state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person: typically characterised by a strong desire to maintain a relationship with the object of love and have one’s feelings reciprocated.****S4 fix-it, starting on the tarmac.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smudgelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgelove/gifts).



John Watson stared, unseeing, at the figures standing motionless across the tarmac, the biting wind drying the tears on his face and his left fist rhythmically clenching by his side. He rests against the black car in a stunned silence; expressions of relief and disbelief vying for priority over his features. Just moments ago he was saying goodbye to his best friend for what he thought was the final time. Now, the only thing John can hear is that hateful voice on a loop inside his head; ‘Did you miss me? Did you miss me?’ He closes his eyes but can still see the afterimage of the most important person in his life, practically unconscious on the plane from a frankly terrifying cocktail of narcotics.

He doesn’t know how long he has been incognisant of his surroundings, but as the world around him slowly comes back into focus he hears Sherlock demand that one of the drivers to take him to Baker Street. The bloody idiot can hardly sit up straight, and his words are nearly incomprehensible, but he thinks he’s just going to go home?  Knowing Sherlock as well as he does, this attitude isn’t surprising; John has lost count of the number of injuries the man has sustained and managed to ignore. But this is different.  John leans into the car and puts his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, looking straight into those ever-changing eyes; eyes that could never decide on their colour, but always sparkle. Not now. Now they are glazed, unfocused. There is not a chance John is going to let him pretend this didn’t occur. He could be dying right in front of them, and the stubborn bastard thinks they are going back to work!

‘No, no... don’t take him anywhere. Don’t you dare move this car, understand?’ The chauffeur, chastised by John’s "Captain Watson" voice, nods once and averts his eyes from Sherlock’s glare in the mirror. John runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the greying strands in frustration. He has felt so many emotions in the last hour, he doesn’t know what to focus on first. Mary. He looks over at her, standing off to the side in her bright red coat, cradling her heavily pregnant belly. She looks so exposed; a tiny dot on the large open airfield. If Moriarty really is back, John needs to make sure his baby is safe. He turns his gaze onto Sherlock’s brother, currently keeping his distance a few feet away, far enough to give the detective and his blogger some semblance of privacy, but without ever really being out of earshot.

‘Mycroft, can you get one of your men to take Mary home?’ The elder man looks as calm and collected as is the norm, but the tension is visible on the white knuckled grip on his umbrella. Holding on as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

‘What? No!’, Mary’s shrill voice echoes across the quiet of the runway as one of Mycroft’s men takes hold of her arm. ‘You can’t side-line me. I’m not some damsel in distress, John.’ She sounds both angry and incredulous at being left out. ‘You know who I am, what I can do. I can help here.’ She’s focused on John, but he is not listening to her words.  She has no right to be here. Although he forgave her for lying about her past, any mention of it only serves to remind John of what she did to Sherlock, and that is something he knows he will never forgive. The only thing that matters to the doctor is that his baby is out of harm’s way. He hears Mycroft say something to Mary about ‘National Security’ as she is gently, but forcibly, ushered into the waiting car. ‘Thank you', John gives Mycroft a grateful smile, knowing he will leave someone to keep a watch over Mary. 

There’s a major threat hanging over them, over the whole of the country, and he has a baby on the way, but all John can think about is the list Sherlock handed to Mycroft on the plane. His friend had taken a frightening variety of drugs; it was a miracle he was still conscious. John doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened had the plane been in the sky any longer.

‘I’m aware you are going to need Sherlock to work on this as soon as possible, but his health comes first. I need to know he’s alright _.’_ (And understand what the  _hell_ he was thinking).

‘Don’t be dull, John. We haven’t got time for a hospital; the game is on!’ The eager, yet still slurred, words emanating from the car let John know Sherlock has been listening; deducing their intentions without even looking at them.  It concerns John that the detective sounds enthusiastic about the possibility of Moriarty being back. The last time they faced him John’s world ended on the pavement outside Bart’s, and he knows he will never survive that happening again.

‘You just overdosed, you moron! If you think you’re just going back to Baker Street as if nothing has happened, then you’re even more of an idiot than you constantly accuse me of being.’ The doctor’s anger is quickly becoming his most prevalent emotion, but he knows it is only a mask for the panic that’s emerging as he thinks about the damage his best friend has done to his body. Sherlock starts to get out of the car as John turns his attention to Mycroft, the expression on the government man’s face clearly answering the unspoken question.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Sherlock rolls his eyes and slumps ungraciously back into the car, long limbs splayed out across the seats. John notices the difference in the man’s diction when he’s been using; gone is the perfect enunciation and public-school parlance. He sounds more like – well, _John._ John frowns, unsure if he’s just managed to insult himself in his own mind.

Mycroft approaches hesitantly, knowing from first-hand experience that his little brother can be violent when he’s under the influence. Especially with him.

‘Sherlock, until John is satisfied that you are _healthy_ , I cannot let you near this case.’ They are all aware that "healthy" has never applied to Sherlock and likely never will. ‘You are a convicted murderer.’ Mycroft sighs, constantly exasperated at the stupidity of the younger man. ‘It’s possible that I will be able to negotiate your freedom in exchange for your assistance in the successful resolution of this new… issue. But do you really think that my superiors are going to believe that the person in front of me right now is capable of _anything?’_

Sherlock sits up straighter in his seat, wraps his Belstaff tightly around himself and turns the collar up: a protective shield against the uncooperative people around him. His usual cold, aloof, mask of indifference showing them all that he is still as capable as he ever has been.

'Don’t threaten me, Mycroft. We both know if Moriarty is back he’ll come looking for me. He will decide the players in this game, not your _superiors.’_

‘Is it possible that he is back?’ John asked the question quietly, apprehensively. He doesn’t want to face this possibility.

‘Of course not. He killed himself right in front of me.’

‘And you killed yourself in front of me…’


	2. Chapter 2

They can hear Sherlock protesting from the waiting room three doors down; complaining about being tested on against his will and deducing one of his nurses to tears. John can only imagine how bad Sherlock is going to be once the withdrawal kicks in. He already knows he’s going to be there for his friend. He only moved back out of Baker Street at Christmas, but there’s no question of him returning to his house in the suburbs now; not while Sherlock needs him. John feels a pang of sympathy for Mycroft who must have been through this numerous times before.

‘Why, Mycroft? Tell me why he would do this… because I don’t understand.’

Mycroft manages to look down at John, although they are both seated, and gives him his patented condescending smirk. ‘My brother seems to think that you have a modicum of intelligence, John, but I must say I rarely see it.’

‘Piss off, Mycroft,’ John hisses. ‘I am really not in the mood for your superiority complex right now.’ He’s finding the urge to hit the smug bastard even stronger than usual.

‘John.’ Mycroft sighs his name. ‘The mission Sherlock was just recalled from? He was being sent back to Serbia. It’s from where I retrieved him when he was… away.’

‘Retrieved?’

‘Rescued. He was in the process of being _tortured_. I won’t go into details, I’m sure you’ve seen the scars,’ Mycroft waves his hand as if to dismiss the image from his mind. The horrified look on John’s face tells Mycroft that he _hadn’t_ seen the scars. They had discussed The Fall a few weeks after Sherlock returned; sitting in front of the fire at Baker Street all night, a few glasses of good scotch to ease the conversation. John had eventually learnt why Sherlock had left the way he had and what he had been doing during those two long years. But torture? He never said a word about that.

‘Six months?! You were going to send him back there for six month, knowing he would probably be tortured? Then what? When he did what you needed him to do, then what?’  John shouts the words, his hand is flexing by his side, nails digging into his palm with each clench.

‘John. Six months wasn’t the length of the mission.’ He pauses, knowing this isn’t going to go down well. ‘It was the amount of time I expected Sherlock to survive.’ 

Mycroft had barely finished speaking when John’s fist connected with his beak like nose. He flew back against the wall, blood gushing from his face.

‘You sent your own brother on a _suicide_ mission??’ John is breathing heavily through his nose, his words are practically a whisper now, calmer, as they always are when he is dangerously angry.

Mycroft holds a handkerchief to his face and when he speaks again his voice is muffled. ‘It was a kindness, John.’ He wouldn’t have lasted a week in solitary; he would have done exactly what he just did.’ With one eyebrow raised, Mycroft looks at John. It’s painful, waiting for him to make the deduction.

‘He tried to kill himself.’ It’s a statement, not a question. John deflates, he feels dizzy. He idly wonders how many times a person’s world can come crashing down around them before they permanently break. He needs to see Sherlock now, needs to know he is ok.

He pushes past the injured man, still trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose, and returns to Sherlock’s room, in time to see his doctor hurrying from the room followed by a litany of insults. He smiles weakly at the petulant look on his friend’s face.

‘John, get me out of this infernal place or I promise I will destroy every last one of your hideous jumpers.’ John nearly cries with relief to hear Sherlock sounding so much like his usual self; to see him in the flesh, alive, awake.

‘Your brother is trying to arrange to get you released into my care. Well, he will be once the bleeding has stopped.’ Sherlock smirks at this, already deducing what has happened between the two men. 

‘I’ll need to monitor you for twenty-four hours, but you…’ John’s voice cracks, he’s not good at talking about emotions, especially with Sherlock. ‘You’re going to be suffering through withdrawal and… and you shouldn’t have to do that alone.’

‘Why not?  I usually do.’ Sherlock is always standoffish when discussing his drug addiction. Usage, he would call it. John isn’t convinced he agrees with that term.

‘Maybe because I’m your friend, and I know you have probably never had someone care enough to be by your side before, but you do now. And because you are going to talk to me for once in your life. Christ, Sherlock, there is so much I need to understand.’

‘I don’t see why you need to know anything.’ Sherlock mumbles, looking away from his friend.

John sighs. Why can’t Sherlock just say that he’s fine and will never use again? That’s all he wants to hear, and then he could make a concerted effort to actually believe it.

‘Sherlock, if you actually want to go home today and not be placed on suicide watch for the next seventy-two hours, you need to co-operate with me! I’m not taking charge of your care without knowing what I’m getting into. So help me God, I _will_ leave you in here.’

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down. In the end, Sherlock knows he needs John on his side if he has any hope of being able to investigate the Moriarty video. The Work is all that matters to him, so he will endure what he must. He averts his eyes, surrendering to John.

‘Thank you.’ John coughs awkwardly. ‘When did you start using again?’

‘No, a few months after my… resurrection.’ Sherlock confesses, waiting for John’s anger to rise again at being lied to.

‘It wasn’t for the Magnussen case?’ If he’s honest with himself, John knew deep down that the drug use was never about the case. ‘So, why then?’

Sherlock mumbles under his breath; something about seeing not observing.  John has heard it many times before and, as usual, doesn’t understand what the detective is trying to point out.  What is he supposed to have observed in his friend’s life that would have made him turn to drugs? Sherlock had seemed consumed with wedding planning during that time, which on reflection did seem a bit strange, but he was unaware of anything that might have caused a relapse.

‘Watching your mind work is positively painful at times.’ Sherlock speaks louder this time, clearly not planning on answering John’s question.

‘Were you using before? When we lived together?’ 

‘No. Until recently I had been clean for five years. While I was away I often wished for it, but I needed to be vigilant; I didn’t have you to watch my back.’ He quickly glances at John through his lashes, aware that is still a bone of contention between them. ‘When we lived together there was never any need.’ Sherlock sounds wistful as he remembers their happier days. ‘Even at my most bored, I rarely felt the urge.’

John feels somewhat touched by this. He remembers the "danger night" they had been afraid of after Irene Adler, and wonders if it would have ended differently had John not been there. The detective may have got clean for The Work, but it seems life with his blogger had helped him stay that way. 

‘Well that’s… I… good. I’m pleased about that at least.’ He smiles, the first genuine smile he’s allowed himself for hours.

‘Are you going to tell him about his wedding night, or am I?’ Mycroft has appeared, like a spectre, tapping his umbrella against his toe. His nose has stopped bleeding but is already starting to bruise.

‘ _Mycroft –.’_ There’s a sudden fear in Sherlock’s voice and his eyes are imploring Mycroft to say no more. 

John is looking between the two men, unsure of what he has missed.

‘What about my wedding night? You left early... what happened, Sherlock?’

Sherlock looks down at his hands, worrying a piece of loose skin with a nail. He clearly has no intention of answering, though he seems resigned to the fact that Mycroft will answer on his behalf. To his credit, Mycroft does look pained as he meets John’s eyes. This isn’t information he was ever planning to share.

‘A massive overdose, John.’ He lets the words sink in before continuing. ‘If I hadn’t been there I doubt he would have survived. Luckily, I _was_ there; because I _knew_.’

‘Oh yes, well done you, saved little brother once more', Sherlock spat, venomously. ‘Fuck off, Mycroft.’ 

The profanity surprises John, he has so rarely heard the man speak like this. He banishes Mycroft from the room with a glance and takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his. It’s rare that they touch like this, physical affection something neither are truly comfortable with, and the contact sends a shiver through both men. John may outwardly appear calm but inside he is in turmoil; he nearly lost Sherlock on his wedding night, 8 months ago, and he didn’t know! Why hadn’t he been called?  He hadn’t seen him for a month after that night and the thought of what his friend was going through while John was sunbathing on his honeymoon, is enough to make him feel sick. There was a time he thought he knew everything about Sherlock, but it seems there was a lot he didn’t _observe_.

‘Sherlock? What did Mycroft _know_?’ His voice cracks on the last word, the tears threatening to spill again. But they won’t. Not in front of Sherlock. He won’t be able to cope with the man’s snide comments about _sentiment._

At this, Sherlock meets his gaze for the first time. John has never seen him looking so open, his cerulean blue eyes full of sorrow. He gives a soft smile and shakes his head; he won’t answer any more. The thought of that time brings forward too many feelings that he is not ready to confront today.


	3. Chapter 3

The last twenty-four hours had not been easy for anyone. Sherlock’s physical symptoms had manifested quickly during the night; the shivers and sweats of the early hours making way for violent bouts of vomiting throughout the day. John had an uncomfortable night sleeping on the sofa, in order to be close by if needed, but Sherlock repeatedly shouting, ‘I’m fine, John’, had kept him at a distance.

Now, after coaxing Sherlock to eat a measly portion of the Thai meal he ordered, John hears his friend in the bathroom again and tentatively heads towards the door.

Sherlock is wrapped around the toilet bowl retching painfully. Dressed only in pyjama bottoms, his upper body shiny with a layer of sweat, and his limp curls plastered to his forehead. John can see just how much weight he has lost; the detective looking frail against the harsh light of the bathroom; though the most shocking sight for the older man is the network of white scar tissue covering the bare skin. Though Mycroft’s words had prepared John, to some extent, the true image was worse than he expected.

He kneels behind him, puts his hand softly against the worst of the marks, and begins to rub soothing circles against the cold flesh.

‘It’s alright, Sherlock’, he whispers, ‘You’re ok’.

‘Of course I’m alright. Go away.’ Sherlock manages to choke out the words, throat dry and voice cracking.

John strokes his hand up and down his friend’s back a moment longer but when he feels Sherlock’s posture stiffen he moves away into the kitchen. He begins the process of making tea, and as he fetches the milk from the surprisingly free of body parts fridge, John ponders his ex-flatmate. What really goes on in the giant brain of Sherlock Holmes, and what’s the full story behind the horrific scars on his once pristine back?

Over the whistle of the boiling kettle, John hears the text alert sound on his phone. He thinks that’s the fifth text since they got home from the hospital, though he hasn’t looked. He knows it will be Mary, knows she will be angry, and he couldn’t face dealing with her last night. Or this morning. Or now, if he’s honest. He chooses to ignore the phone and takes a glass of water through to Sherlock. He’s still on the floor leaning against the wall and doesn’t make eye contact. After an awkward moment of silence, he picks up the glass and down’s it quickly, but doesn’t make a move to get up.

‘I’m making a cuppa, if you want one. Do you want a hand getting back into bed?’ He ventures casually, although he knows Sherlock hates to be seen like this and the gesture won’t be welcomed.

‘No, leave me alone.’ Sherlock confirms, and John isn’t surprised to hear the anger in his voice; the younger man often masking his vulnerability this way. ‘I don’t need to go back to bed, I’m a grown man and it’s 7 o’clock, for God’s sake. Stop treating me like a child.’ He does his best to storm through the connecting door with his usual dramatic flair, but the effect is lessened by his stumble over the threshold. John reaches out and guides him back over to his bed.

‘I’m not treating you like a child, I’m treating you like a patient’, John sighs, ‘I see we’ve reached the anger stage of the withdrawal process. Let’s see if we can get through this one quickly, for my sake.’ The doctor knows he’ll be bearing the brunt of this for the next few days, but he’s used to dealing with Sherlock’s petulant child phases, so he thinks he has thick enough skin to get through it. The underlying concern is protecting Sherlock from Moriarty, or whoever was behind that tape. If something is set into motion while the detective is in this state, John thinks they will struggle to fight it. He’s heard nothing from Mycroft since they got home and hopes that is a good thing.

He distantly hears his phone sound again in the other room.

‘Go and speak to your wife, John. She’s the one carrying your _actual_ child.’ Sherlock curls up on his left-hand side, facing away from the door, an instant dismissal. But John has one more thing he has to say;

‘Sherlock, your scars –’

‘Don’t, John.’

‘No, listen – know you won’t – but if you need…’ John trails off; he knows Sherlock will understand. ‘I’m here.’

There’s no response from the figure on the bed, but he didn’t expect one; neither of them good at discussing feelings.

Accepting his banishment, John returns to the task of making tea before finding his phone buried under the mountains of paper on the desk. He slumps into his chair with a weary sigh and opens his unread messages;

[Received 19.43]  
_John, it’s getting late, when will you be home?_

[Received 20.21]  
_Someone has just been here collecting a week’s worth of clothes for you! I take it that means you’re not coming home? Would have been nice for you to let me know._

[Received 22.10]  
_He can look after himself, John! I’m sure this isn’t his first overdose._

[Received 23.01]  
_Remind me, which one of us did you actually marry?_

He should probably feel guilty for not contacting Mary, but the truth is he doesn’t, the insensitive tone of her messages making him feel bitterness instead. In an ideal world, he would be there for both his best friend and his wife, but if there is ever a choice his answer will always be the same. He can’t reconcile the Mary he thought he knew, with the one so uncaring about his friend’s relapse.

If he had hoped that she would have calmed down over night, he would have been disappointed when he saw the button she was trying to push in the messages which had come in during the evening;

[Received 20.05]  
_John, why are you still with him? I’m eight months pregnant and my husband, and doctor, is playing house with his boyfriend!’_

[Received 20.37]  
_You’ve always cared for him more than me, haven’t you?_

John scoffs at these, the sudden breath fluttering his top lip. Mary was always calling Sherlock his _boyfriend_ or _husband_ when they were planning the wedding but had stopped after John expressed his displeasure. As for caring for Sherlock; of course he does! They were so close before The Fall and that kind of friendship never dies. Whereas, his feelings for his wife are something he doesn’t like to think too deeply about, these days. When she nearly killed Sherlock (technically did, John amends), a lot changed. _Everything_ changed for John. He doesn’t know exactly what he feels anymore, but there’s a baby on the way and that’s what matters now.

He decides to get the conversation over while Sherlock is (hopefully) sleeping.

‘John?’ Mary answers sleepily.

‘Mary… I’m sorry about yesterday, I should have let you know I couldn’t come home, but these texts are ridiculous. I don’t know what you are trying to say, but I can’t leave him on his own.’

‘Oh, John.’ She sighs, theatrically, ‘You care so much about him and all he does is disappoint you.’

‘He’s my best friend, Mary!’

‘I’m your wife – _and I’m pregnant!_ ’ Mary shouts down the phone at him. John finds himself moving from irritated to irate; his face becoming heated and his eyes scrunched closed with the effort to remain calm.

‘But you don’t need a doctor right now and he really does. I cannot – _I will not_ – leave him like this.’ He takes another deep breath. ‘As long as you’re medically fine I’m going to stay here for a few more days.’

‘Ha! I’m surprised you haven’t moved back in. Again. The detective and his blogger. Don’t pretend you haven’t been itching to go back ever since he came home. He’s always trying to find a reason for you to be there, and you let him.’

‘FIND A REASON?? You _shot_ him! That’s why we’re here, Mary.’ John didn’t want to raise his voice; didn’t want to risk waking Sherlock, but he can’t believe her audacity.

‘This is nothing to do with that and you know it! He was using long before I… did what I did.’ There’s no sign of remorse in her words. ‘He was heartbroken and couldn’t deal with it,’ Mary laughs, ‘He couldn’t stand that you had married me.’

‘Now you’re being ludicrous.’

‘Oh, come on!’ She snorts, ‘Have you really never noticed? I’ve always thought he was fairly obvious, but then, he never can hide things from me.’

John is silent now; he can’t even begin to formulate a response. She’s wrong. She’s just playing games. Sherlock doesn’t feel things that way, not for him, maybe not for anyone.

‘I can’t have this discussion with you now, Mary. If you need me, for anything to do with the baby, then give me a call. Otherwise, please leave me to do my job and keep your insinuations to yourself.’ John hangs up the phone and throws it across to the sofa. His right hand hurts from where he had been digging his fingers into the arm of his chair. He knows that Mary isn’t the woman he thought she was, but he’s still hurt by her callous comments. She and Sherlock had seemed to be friends, planning the wedding together, and the detective was certainly quick to forgive her for the shooting, but the way she has spoken now seemed to show a contempt for the man. John wants Sherlock to be a big part of his child’s life and he hopes Mary is not going to make it difficult; he doesn’t need another reason to distance himself from his marriage.

His name being called from the other end of the flat, forces John to put these thoughts away and tend to his patient. Sherlock is curled up on his side, facing the door, and looks up at John when he enters. One look at the softness in his friend’s eyes, and John immediately knows that, despite his best efforts, the younger man has heard everything.

‘Go home, John. You’re needed there.’ Sherlock’s tone clearly expressing that he doesn’t need the doctor here; but the shakiness of his voice exposes the underlying vulnerability which tells John quite the opposite.

‘I will, soon, but I need to get you through the next couple of days first, and…’, he approaches the next sentence with caution, ‘We still have a lot of talking to do.’

‘Dull’. The tall man turns on to his back, stretching out, and closes his eyes. His fingers and bare toes tapping a constant beat as he fights against the withdrawal.

‘Yes, I know.’ John turns to leave the room but is stopped by Sherlock’s voice, soft and insecure.

‘Why are you even here?’ He sounds genuinely curious. ‘I can’t give you your fix of danger now. That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A fix? A convenience?’ He pauses in thought; ‘Maybe it was more once, but not now.’ His eyes open again, and he fixes John to the spot with his stare; ‘John, I know I am a difficult man to care for, but one of the cruellest things you can do to another person, is pretend you care about them more than you really do.’

John can’t believe what he is hearing. Is this really how Sherlock sees his place in John’s life? ‘You’re my best friend! You’re not a _convenience_. I’m here because I care about you more than anything.’ He stops, noticing the slip and hoping that Sherlock hasn’t. ‘Sherlock, it’s never been about the thrill of the chase. We’re – you and me, we’re...’ John’s voice starts to crack as he’s overcome with feelings for the man in front of him. He feels the compelling desire to put his arms around his friend; to try to show what he means to him. But they don’t do that, and for a man of words, John is completely at a loss for what else to say.

‘But... you _chose_ her.’

Sherlock sounds so broken, John knows he won’t be able to look at him and keep it together. He forces his eyes closed against the flood of tears, turns around quickly and leaves the room.


	4. Chapter 4

As the worst of his withdrawal symptoms began to subside and the cravings kicked in, Sherlock found himself at the mercy of boredom.

On the fifth day following his return to Baker Street, the detective picked up his violin for the first time. His long, elegant fingers caressing the instrument like a lover, knowing exactly how to touch her. John watched with a feeling akin to jealousy as his friend delicately stroked the wood and began to tune the strings. The care that Sherlock showed his most prized possession was more than many people show a loved one. John could feel his face heat at the thoughts and quickly disappeared into the kitchen under the guise of making tea. He always looked forward to Sherlock’s private concerts, but he needed a moment to collect himself. Damn! It must have been a long time since he had been intimate with Mary, if watching someone tune a violin was erotic.

Normally, Sherlock doesn’t mind playing for his friend, after all he is a show off, but this time he is nervous. He knows exactly what he wants to play, a piece by Bach which has been stuck in his head for days, but his hands aren’t steady. As he picks up the bow he can see the tremor in his hand caused by the withdrawal, and immediately puts it down again. He just needs a moment, he thinks. A few more minutes of tweaking the strings and he hears John come back into the room, placing a cup of tea on the small table beside him. He doesn’t acknowledge him, but picks up the bow again and starts to play.

The vibration running through the bow ruins the sound completely and he immediately stops, frustrated. Taking a deep breath he closes his eyes and tries again. The sound this time is even worse; the shaking in his hands clearly visible. He’s angry. Angry at his body for failing him again; angry that he can’t do the one thing that calms his mind. As he is seriously considering hurling the instrument out of the window, he feels a hand on the small of his back.

As he opens his eyes, John is standing beside him, taking both the violin and bow and placing them carefully on the desk. Before his friend can turn to look at him, Sherlock has stormed back to his room and slammed the door.

**

The subsequent days saw Sherlock solve six cases for Lestrade, each one obvious and dull; barely even a four. With the boredom that followed came a restlessness and an inability to calm his traitorous mind.

On day nine the cravings became too much, causing him to completely break down and beg John for a hit. It nearly destroyed the doctor to see his friend in such a state, and if asked, they would both deny that Sherlock cried himself to sleep in John’s arms that night.

On the day following the breakdown, against his better judgement, but to the great delight of the detective, John allows the younger man to smoke again. One cigarette turned into three, but it helped to bring a wave of calmness over the flat. A calmness that was needed to soothe Sherlock’s irritation when his brother dropped by unannounced, for the third time since their return from the hospital. The pair had again closed themselves off in the kitchen for their discussion, leaving John feeling out of the loop. His attempts to speak to Mycroft regarding the wedding night had been met with stony silence. John needs to discuss it with Sherlock soon, as well as having the long-awaited conversation about Magnussen, and the overdose on the plane, but talking is not his forte and Sherlock is even worse. It hurts John deeply to think that Sherlock may have tried to commit suicide twice and not been able to talk to his best friend.

As John hears the kitchen side door close, marking Mycroft’s departure, Sherlock returns to the living room, marching angrily to the sofa and throwing himself on it dramatically. Sprawled over the length of the furniture with his left foot planted on the floor, Sherlock lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag and closing his eyes.

John waits for a moment to see if he will speak, before breaking the silence; ‘So… Moriarty. Care to tell me what all the secret meetings with your brother have been about?’

‘Mycroft has people looking into the source of the transmission.’ It appears as though this is all Sherlock is going to say on the matter, but before John can comment, he begins to speak again, absent-mindedly tapping ash onto the already filthy floor.

‘It’s not him… It can’t be him, not the actual man, and I destroyed his network. At least, I thought I had.’ Sherlock mumbles the last part under his breath. The thought that those two years away had been for nothing is galling.

‘If this is someone who worked for him, they will come after me. Or you. That video was a warning – the start of a game. We just need to wait.’

‘Or… the video has nothing to do with him at all, and someone just didn’t want me to be sent away.’ He pauses, looks at John, and quirks his left eyebrow, ‘It wasn’t you was it?’

John barks out a laugh, ‘Ha! No, sorry. Don’t think I have the expertise for that.’ A thought occurs to him, ‘Not Mycroft, then?’

‘No, apparently not. He’s still a rubbish big brother.’ Sherlock smirks and John laughs heartedly. It’s the first real laugh they have shared in a while, and John realises just how long it’s been since he was truly happy.

John smiles as he watches the younger man blow smoke rings at the ceiling. Now those ever observant eyes are closed again, John takes the time to study his friend carefully. He notices the hollowed cheeks as Sherlock sucks deeply on his cigarette. The low slung pyjama bottoms revealing protruding hipbones and a concave stomach. John has always appreciated his friend’s slim figure, but the usual muscle tone is lacking, and he is beginning to look too thin.

Trailing his eyes over the detective’s form, he pauses to count the beats of the pulse in his neck, just below the trio of moles on the left side he had always thought of as Orion’s belt. Was it strange to think of a man’s neck in such detail? He couldn’t deny that he thought his friend was attractive; his ethereal beauty is hard to ignore. He often felt his eyes drawn to the man’s lips when he spoke, or an urge to run his hands through his curls. As a wave of extreme fondness crashes over the doctor, his wife’s words echo in the back of his mind;-

‘ _You’ve always cared for him more than me, haven’t you?’_

John frowns. He knows the answer to that is probably yes. It’s not that he never loved Mary, he really did, but if it was ever stronger that what he feels for Sherlock, he’s sure it isn’t now. He idly wonders about his future; a husband, a father, grandchildren and a couple of dogs… It’s very different from the future he had imagined when he first lived at Baker Street. His retirement dreams have always included Sherlock. Just Sherlock. A cottage, maybe, and some beehives. He sighs. It seems like the right moment to broach a conversation with his friend.

John fetches them both a finger of whiskey from the kitchen, hoping the liquid courage might make this conversation easier. He nudges Sherlock’s shoulder to get his attention, and hands him the glass.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks his friend up and down. Immediately he reads everything in one glance. ‘Oh dear,’ he sighs as he meets his eyes.

‘What?’

‘You want to talk about something and I’m not going to like it. No… that’s not quite right.’ He looks over John again. ‘Neither of us are going to like it.’

‘Oh? Go on then.’

‘You always avoid eye contact when there is any mention of emotions, but you get a particular pinched look on your face when you are about to talk to me about something you know I don’t want to talk about. However, look at your fist,’ John looks down, ‘The tremors are back and you’re flexing your fingers to ward them off. You very rarely get the intermittent shakes any more, too much excitement in your life. If you were only approaching me with a talk I wouldn’t like, you would consider it a battle, soldier mode, and your hand would be perfectly steady. But whatever you’re about to say makes you uncomfortable too.’

As ever, John is blown away with how well Sherlock can read him. Since day one he has found the detective’s deductions amazing; even when they are aimed at him.

‘Yes, well… spot on as usual.’ John plunges ahead and hopes for the best. ‘I think we need to talk.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘I detest talking about the past, and I loathe making small talk.’

‘This isn’t _small talk_ , Sherlock, this is – I’m your best friend and I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours.’

‘You’ve never known what’s going on in my head, I don’t know why you need to start now.’

‘Because this is big, Sherlock! This isn’t just another one of your moods, you tried to kill yourself!’ Sherlock scoffs at this. ‘And you killed somebody else. I…’ John trails off as his words force his mind back to the night at Appledore. He remembers the fear as the snipers aimed their sights on Sherlock; he hears Mycroft’s terrified voice, ‘ _Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!’_

John doesn’t know where to start; there are so many things they need to talk about. He accepts this is going to be a very long night, and begins to speak.

‘Sherlock, there’s a lot I don’t understand.’ He laughs, humourlessly, ‘Pretty much everything since you jumped off that roof, to be honest.’ John holds his hand up to stop Sherlock from speaking while he gathers his thoughts.

‘After she shot you, I didn’t love Mary any more. It was you that convinced me to go back to her when all I wanted was to come back home. I understand why, I do, but damn it Sherlock, why did you kill Magnussen for her? Why would you become a murderer to protect the woman who shot you?’ John’s breathing is becoming laboured, he isn’t just remembering finding Sherlock’s body on the floor of Magnussen’s office, he’s _feeling_ it – viscerally.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and he places the tip of his fingers to his plush cupid’s bow. As he speaks, his lips place delicate kisses on his fingertips.

‘Not for her – for you.’ Sherlock admits in a whisper so quiet, it’s as if he doesn’t really want John to hear it. ‘Because I… care for you.’

Immediately he wishes he hadn’t said it. Stupid emotions. Sentiment. Nothing good can ever come from talking about his feelings. He’s glad he didn’t say any more.

On some level, John knows; he’d been there for the best man speech after all. He knew Sherlock had faked his death to protect him, and he knows his happiness is vital to the man, and that he would do anything that he thought would ensure it; but it appears the genius failed to observe how vital his own presence is to his friend.

‘Oh, Sherlock… I know you don’t care for many people, but when you do –,’ John coughs around the lump in his throat. ‘You know… your brain may be remarkable, but your heart is beautiful.’

‘Poetry, John?’ Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, sardonically, but the quiver in his voice betrays his emotion.

John smiles softly, ‘Can’t believe anyone ever bought that _sociopath_ bollocks.’ He pauses.

‘Listen - you have to stop sacrificing yourself for me. I need _you_ here too.’ He watches the furrow between the man’s eyebrows deepen, confusion over the unexpected sentiment.

Sherlock stays silent but hasn’t escaped to his bedroom yet so John decides to push his luck and see if he can get the answers Mycroft has been so reluctant to give.

‘Sherlock? The night of my wedding. What happened after you left?'

The mask is back on his friend’s face now, ‘Mycroft gave you the details.’

‘No, he didn’t. And you know that’s not what I meant. He told me _what_ , he didn’t tell me _why._ ’ But someone else had told John why, and he was starting to believe there may be some truth to it. He doesn’t expect to actually get an answer from Sherlock, but if he doesn’t try now he knows it will just be another moment that gets discretely swept under the rug. He takes a breath, ‘Mary thinks –.’

‘ _What?’_ Sherlock cuts John off sharply, suddenly afraid of what Mary may have told John. She has always been more perceptive than most and can read Sherlock nearly as well as Mycroft.

‘Well… Mary thinks…’ John sighs in frustration at his own emotional constipation. ‘Christ, this is hard.’

‘Don’t do it then. Leave it alone’ He’s not begging. He isn’t.

‘What?’

‘If it’s hard, don’t do it.’ Sherlock’s voice is calm, indifferent, but his fingers rhythmically twitching on the arm of the chair show a nervousness he is trying to disguise. It’s a tell that John has always been aware of, and although part of him wants to have mercy on his friend, he has to know.

‘Um… Mary thinks…’ John is beginning to regret starting this conversation, and as he’s fumbling around for the right words, his phone beeps on the desk. Saved by the bell, he glances over at it; as if the courage to continue will be found in the words on the screen.

A text from Mary lights up the display, and John’s blood runs cold as he reads the words:-

[Received 16.21]  
_Hospital. Now._


	5. Chapter 5

John has paced up and down the same fifty feet of stark, white hospital corridor so many times he has lost count. The cacophony of beeping machines and talking doctors are doing nothing to help his frail nerves. Hands clenching by his side, he reaches one end and turns back around again, shoes squeaking rhythmically on the scratched linoleum.

After receiving Mary’s message, he had tried to call her, five times in fact, but the phone had rung through to voicemail each time. It was Sherlock that had calmly suggested that John head over to UCH, the hospital Mary had planned to give birth in. When John gave his name at the front desk, he was advised his wife had been rushed into surgery and that a doctor would be with him soon. That was thirty-two minutes ago.

Why aren’t they telling him something? He’s not panicking; at least he’s trying to convince himself he’s not. He’s a doctor, he knows the odds, knows all of the possible scenarios, good and bad, but _Christ –_ what if there was something he could have done? He’s spent a total of one week with her throughout the last six months of her pregnancy. He should have been there.

John pulls at his hair as the continues to walk the floor, the guilt building up inside him. It’s likely he couldn’t have done anything to prevent it, but she probably would have been frightened. His wife, pregnant and alone, because he had been looking after his friend. His friend who had taken a drug overdose, after killing a man to protect said wife. His mind is all over the place, not knowing how he can possibly be there for both of them. No matter if he was morally right to have stayed with Sherlock, he still feels like the world’s most appalling husband. He knows the younger man is feeling guilty too, for requiring so much of John’s time, that much was evident in his refusal to be there at the hospital. Sherlock had all but pushed him out of the door, with a vague promise to visit once “it was all over”. John allows a small smile at the thought of his friend witnessing childbirth – equal parts fascinated and horrified.

He jumps out of his chair at the sound of the door opening. A tall, blond man in surgical scrubs approaches; ‘Mr. Watson?’

‘Yes… yes… Doctor, actually… John is fine…’, John trails off, not wanting to ask a question, for fear of the answer.

The doctor grasps John’s hand, ‘I’m Dr. Wilkins, John, and _you_ have a baby girl.’

The euphoria hits him like a wave, a flood of happiness so powerful his legs go weak. He has a daughter; he is actually a father! He’d never even considered having a child until Sherlock announced it at the wedding, and then he had been so concerned that a baby wouldn’t fit into his crime fighting life with Sherlock that he had buried his head in the sand and tried to forget it was happening. But now that she is here he just _knows_ they will make it work, somehow.

As he smiles up at the surgeon, his relief is short-lived. He recognises the expression on the man’s face – not condolences, but not the happy expression he was hoping for. The cold dread he felt when he saw Mary’s text message, is creeping back in.

He asks, tentatively, ‘How’s Mary?’

‘Your wife is doing well, though she has had major surgery so she’s on a bit of a cocktail of painkillers and sedatives. She came into us with sudden bleeding, pain in her abdomen, and very high blood pressure – is that normal for her?’

‘Er, no, but… she’s been under a lot of stress recently.’ I found out she was an assassin and she shot my best friend, John thinks wryly. Probably best not to explain that to the man in front of him. ‘The bleeding?’ he asks, attempting to look at this from the position of a doctor, rather than a husband and father, ‘Placental abruption?’

‘Yes, it was. She told the paramedics she had been lightly bleeding for a number of days but hadn’t seen it as anything to worry about it. She didn’t mention this to you?’

John shakes his head and swallows, feeling even more guilty than before. He had told her to call if she needed anything in regard to the pregnancy, but he hadn’t really made an effort to check up on her.

‘I see’, Dr. Wilkins coughs; he can read the signs of a separated couple, a mile away. ‘Well, we took her straight in for an emergency caesarean, as she was only three weeks from due date and your daughter was showing signs of foetal distress.’

‘Christ… Is she alright? Can I see her?’

‘She’s suffering from birth asphyxia, which means –’

‘ _Yes, I know what it means_!’ John hisses loudly at the surgeon.

‘Sorry Dr. Watson, of course. We have her in an incubator in the neonatal ward. She’s bradycardic and her lungs are struggling, and as you are aware, when one is not doing its job correctly it drastically reduces the ability of the other. We will fight to get her oxygen levels up over the next couple of days, and hope that her heart improves as a result. She’s responsive to light and sound, which is good news, but whether the oxygen deprivation has resulted in further brain damage, we cannot know at this stage.’ John nods, understanding but not quite accepting that his little girl could be suffering only a few hours into her life.

‘I’ll take you through to your wife now and a nurse will be through to take you down to your daughter shortly.’ Dr. Wilkins leads John, silently, through a set of double doors and over to a private room, courtesy of Mycroft no doubt. He holds out his hand, ‘I’ll come by later, once your wife is awake, and we can discuss how we need to proceed.’

John thanks him and quietly opens the door, noting the dim lights and Mary’s recumbent form. He makes his way over to the chair next to the bed and gratefully takes a seat, sighing loudly and relaxing his tense hands onto his lap.

The new father looks over at his wife; her blond curls are plastered to her forehead, a sheen of sweat covers her face and there are burst blood vessels underneath her eyes. Though the drugs coursing through her veins have given her a relaxed expression, she had clearly been in some significant pain beforehand. He closes his eyes; the guilt is never going to leave him. Mary starts muttering something in her sleep; in this moment, she is no longer the partner that betrayed him, she’s the mother of his child. John is surprised by the intensity of the affection he suddenly feels for her; true, it’s a different type of love now, but it’s love nonetheless.

Could that be enough? Does this mean his marriage can survive? It could be a completely fresh start for all of them, and John could maybe learn to be with Mary again, through the mutual love of their little girl. Their little girl… who is the only reason he’s still there and not back home at Baker Street. He groans audibly, cupping his head in his hands.

It was Sherlock that had encouraged him to go back to Mary, so even if he left, would he even be welcome back at 221b? The possibility that Sherlock could turn him away is unlikely, but he seemed determined that John forgive her, as he had done so easily.

But John could never truly forgive Mary for hurting Sherlock, though he desperately wants to. No, actually, he doesn’t want to forgive her for what she did, because Sherlock died on that table and John can never unlearn that fact. But he _wishes_ he could want it; he _wishes_ he wanted the life in front of him.

As John presses his fingers to his forehead, trying to quell the warring voices therein, he hears a soft murmur from the bed.

‘John...?'

‘Hey, love, how are you doing?’ It’s the first time he’s called her that since their honeymoon.

‘Did I do it?’ Mary blearily opens one eye and smiles softly.

John chuckled at the comment, ‘Yes, yes you did. We have a little girl.’ He can’t tell her about the complications, not while she’s still high from the medication. He wonders how he will protect them both from the people in Mary’s past, and the threat from ‘Moriarty’. Hell, he doesn’t even know exactly who or what he’s protecting them from!

As he takes her hand she drifts off again, a serene smile on her face either from the happiness of becoming a mother, or the sedatives still in her bloodstream. John would bet on the latter. She grips his finger and sighs contently.

‘I knew I was right…’ She usually is, John thinks. 'Getting pregnant… I knew it was right.’ John’s head snaps up at this and he grips her hand tightly, but Mary has is silent again, breathing deeply, lulled back under by the drugs in her system.

‘Mary…?’

When they found out about the pregnancy, John had thought back to every time, wondering if they had ever not used protection. As a doctor, he was almost religious about it and couldn’t think of a single time they’d slipped up. Accidents happen, was the assumption, but now…

‘John?’

‘What’s wrong, love?’

‘Did we get the mushroom risotto out?’

John barked a laugh that echoed in the quiet room; mushroom risotto? They don’t even like mushrooms! She’s talking nonsense - good. He can’t take anything she says seriously, he thinks, relieved.

He tries to get a glimpse into the corridor, wondering where the nurse is, anxious to see his daughter for the first time.

‘I’m glad I found you again, John.’ Mary shuffles over and squeezes his hand. ‘I knew you were the one… even then.’ John frowns; even when?

‘Hey, honey, what do you mean?’

‘I remembered you. And I knew you’d be sad.’

‘Sad, when?’

‘But I found you. And you married _me_ , not him.’

None of this makes sense; he should just ignore her, but it’s difficult when she seems so sure of her comments. She’s not lucid, he tells himself, she’s probably getting reality confused with a dream.

‘Dr. Watson?’ A nurse peeks her head into the room and calls to him quietly. John jumps out of the seat with an urgency usually reserved for chasing after Sherlock. ‘I can take you to your daughter now, if you’re ready?’

‘Please, yes.’

‘I want to name her Rosamund.’ Mary suddenly calls out, just as John is leaving the room.

‘Not bloody likely.’ He huffs.

**

She’s tiny: Four pounds and seven ounces. The wires for the various equipment making her look even smaller. There are tubes to help her breathe and feed, as well as various monitors to ensure her heart is working correctly. She’s wearing a hospital issue babygrow, the bee adorned ones which Sherlock had gifted them still sat at in a bag back at Baker Street. They would be too big for her now, but John hopes to see her in one before long. She’s so vulnerable at this moment and the doctor in him knows the next few days will be crucial in determining if she is going to survive. Though the father in him won’t entertain the thought that she won’t.

‘Dr. Watson, would you like to hold her?’ the young nurse beside him asks, ‘We do encourage you to try, despite the wires and tubes. You know, to help her bond with you, and I’m sure it feels nicer than laying in there.’ She nods towards the incubator.

John freezes; he’s about to hold his daughter for the first time. This poor little girl, that has been born into such a mess, that John is now responsible for. He’s held many babies during his time as a GP, but he suddenly doubts his ability to do this properly.

Although he hasn’t answered, the nurse is collecting the tiny bundle and rearranging the tubes. ‘You’ll have to stand close, I’m afraid this lot doesn’t stretch very far.’

John straightens his back, gives a brisk nod, and moves forward. He can’t panic now, she needs him. He looks down as she is placed delicately into his arms. He can already recognise Mary’s nose and full lips; will she have the blond curls too? Her eyes are resting softly closed, seemingly unaware of the fight taking place in her body.

‘Hello’, he says softly, a tender smile on his lips and tears in his eyes. ‘Welcome. I’m your dad’, it feels strange to say it out loud. ‘I wanted to name you Catherine, but I don’t think Mummy likes it. We’ll keep it between you and me for now.’ At the mention of Mary his smile turns sadder, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen now, love, but I promise I will always be there for you.’ But does this mean making things work with Mary, or leaving? John knows his own childhood would have been happier if his parents had separated, putting an end to the constant fighting and undisclosed hatred that surrounded his upbringing.

Could he be a part-time dad and move back to Baker Street? He thinks Mary expected him to do so permanently in the aftermath of the shooting, it’s not far from the truth considering the amount of time he’s been there recently. But there’s always the threat of Mary running and leaving him alone with his daughter, or worse – taking her too.

He already feels an attachment that only parents understand; a profound need to protect her from all the evil in the world. He laughs, ‘But that’s what Uncle Sherlock is for’, his face brightening at the thought of his friend. He should be here.

With his tiny daughter resting on one arm he carefully reaches for his phone, takes an awkward, one-handed photo and fires off a quick text:-

_You have a god-daughter._


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes holding a tiny baby, is something John Watson is definitely going to immortalise. He must have taken a hundred photographs, circling the pair to get the perfect angle, working around the leads and medical paraphernalia.

His daughter’s clear blue eyes are staring up at his friend, just as he is staring, unblinking, down at her. A mixture of awe and utter confusion on his face, as if he is unsure how he got to be there. John chuckles to himself; these photos are going to be very popular around Scotland Yard.

Mary had been down earlier, spending some time holding her little girl to her chest, crying silent tears. John wonders if she is feeling the same emotions that he is; the fear for the baby’s health, the concern over the state of their marriage, and the outside threats hanging over them. But they don’t talk. The doctor had advised them that as there had been no improvement in the girl’s condition, she would need to stay in the neonatal ward and continue to be given oxygen. Mary would also need to stay in hospital until she had recovered from the surgery, and she returned to bed, to rest, when Sherlock arrived.

They had sat for a while, watching her sleep, as John explained to Sherlock about his daughter’s condition - and the likelihood of her survival - in the detached manner of a doctor. The younger man had taken a moment to observe him, quickly deducing everything that he wasn’t saying. He looked stricken by the news that his new god-daughter was so gravely ill. He had asked the right questions, said the right things, and when the baby girl woke he had lovingly taken her into his arms.

John’s eyes shine with unshed tears as he looks at the scene in front of him, and he finds it hard to understand why he feels so much more emotion seeing his friend with his daughter, than seeing his wife with her. This is what a family should feel like, he thinks.

He stops taking pictures for a moment, to see that Sherlock has been standing frighteningly still for the last fifteen minutes, and hasn’t uttered a word.

‘Sherlock?’ John tries to break through the man’s frozen state.

Sherlock drags his eyes slowly over towards his friend, a blank, dazed look on his face, ‘Hmm?’

John raises an eyebrow, waiting for the expected comment given by most people when they first hold a newborn baby. He continues to look at Sherlock, knowing he will get there eventually.

‘Oh… She’s beautiful, John. Fascinating.’ He means it, it’s the first time he has ever held a baby and the there is so much he wants to learn.

John can’t help it; beaming gratefully, he flings his arms awkwardly around the taller man, mindful of his tiny girl and the equipment helping her breathe. As he looks up, he recognises the look on the detective’s face, and gives a mock frown; ‘You are not experimenting on my daughter, Sherlock Holmes!’

He expects the man to laugh, but his eyes are focused down again. John coughs, to break the silence, ‘Nothing dangerous, anyway.’ He concedes. In truth, the thought of his friend taking an interest in his daughter, is a beautiful one. He can’t wait to take her to Baker Street, for Sherlock to hold her as he’s looking over a case, to share a take away while she sleeps between them. Would the violin lull her to sleep as it had done with her father?

‘I miss living with you.’ The words come before John has a chance to stop them, and he immediately regrets them. Sherlock doesn’t do well with too much sentiment and the last thing he wants is to make him uncomfortable. But it seems he needn’t have worried.

‘I, um… miss it too. Living with you. It gets… quiet.’ He frowns at his own words, but he must have said the right thing as John is smiling, wistfully.

‘I’m sure it won’t be quiet with her around’, he nods towards the young girl, ‘We still haven’t named her yet, can’t seem to agree, but she’s Catherine in my head. Just don’t tell Mary.’ He waits for a response that doesn’t come, ‘Speaking of Mary, she said some things earlier that I wanted to talk to you about. She was under the influence at the time, but some of it was a bit…’

As John continues to talk about Mary’s words, Sherlock has tuned him out. He studies the child in his arms, nodding occasionally so that John won’t realise he isn’t listening. He knows he should have said more than the standard “she’s beautiful”, but even that sentence took a monumental amount of effort. He is glad that Mary is not here, she has always been able to read him too well, and he would rather not have his current thoughts broadcast.

Sherlock is doing his very best to be detached, to keep a distance from the emotional scene around him. It’s not because he believes that sentiment is a chemical defect, nor is it because the girl in his arms is not his own flesh and blood.

It’s because the moment he looked down at her, he knew with absolute certainty, that she wasn’t John’s either.

**

It is perfectly reasonable that a child may resemble one parent and not the other, he’s aware of this, but somehow Sherlock just _knows_.

Suddenly the ward feels too hot; too small. Sweat starts to bead around his hairline and his hands feel clammy. He needs to get out of the room now, can no longer bear to look at this child and at John’s joyful face. He can hear his friend still speaking, but his voice seems distant and muffled.

Sherlock just stares, unmoving, at the child in his arms, and for the first time in recent memory he is at a complete loss as to his next move.

‘Sherlock? Are you okay?’ He has been silent for too long, his racing heartbeat is likely loud enough to hear, and he can detect the concern in John’s voice.

‘Hmm? Yes, fine.’ He pauses, then takes a deep breath, ‘Well, it was lovely to meet her, John, but I must be going. Mycroft needs… something, and I’m sure Mary would like to be here with you both.’

Sherlock passes the small bundle over to his friend, taking one last glance at the girl, wishing another deduction would come, to prove his first inaccurate. He fumbles for his phone with such haste he nearly drops it twice, which only serves to concern John more.

‘Oh, okay. I didn’t realise you had something on’, John is disappointed, though he’s not sure why. Sherlock is right; Mary should be down here with her daughter. ‘Maybe you could bring Mrs. H with you when you come back? We could leave the girls down here and go get a coffee?’ He pauses, ‘I’d like to hear your opinion on the things Mary said.’

‘Yes… yes, that sounds… I’ll think on it’, Sherlock is backing away now, focusing on his phone, no idea what he has just promised to ‘think on’.

He raises his eyes to lock with John’s once, attempts to give a reassuring smile as he turns to escape the ward, looking around for the nearest way out of the building.

There’s a door opposite with stairs that lead to the rooftop, and as he pushes quickly through and jogs to the top, he reaches for his cigarettes with one hand and makes a call with the other. Coming out into the fresh air, he takes deep, gulping breaths, and as his call connects, he doesn’t waste time on pleasantries;

‘I need a paternity test on Mary’s baby.’ The silence on the other end of the phone, speaks volumes. Sherlock places the cigarette between his lips and lights it, waiting for his brother to speak.

‘ _I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to request one_ ’, the smugness of his voice, along with the insinuation in the words, makes Sherlock furious.

‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW, MYCROFT?’ His booming voice echoes off the neighbouring buildings.

‘ _Why would I know anything, Sherlock? I simply expected you to have been looking for a reason for John to return to you, and that this thought might have occurred.’_ There’s a pause followed by a sigh, before Mycroft speaks again. ‘ _Y_ _ou do realise there are more important things for me to be concerned about, at this time?’_

‘Nothing is more important to me’, he retorts, a petulant tone creeping in despite his attempts to avoid it.

‘ _Sherlock, we believe we have located the source of the Moriarty video. You’ll be interested to learn that after bouncing around half of the world, we determined that the transmission actually originated in London; specifically from –’_

Sherlock abruptly hangs up the phone and briefly considers hurling it from the rooftop.

Immediately there is a text alert:-

[Received 13.12]  
_Please do try to remember why your exile was so short-lived. You have a case to work. MH_

[Received 13.13]  
_I shall ensure the test is carried out as soon as possible. MH_

He takes a deep drag on the cigarette, breathing the smoke out with a sigh of relief, and silently thanks his infuriating brother. He considers that this may be an occasion that warrants an actual remark of appreciation, and sends a quick ‘thank you’ text. Staying on Mycroft’s good side has it’s advantages.

The case is starting to sound interesting, and in truth he is curious to know the source of the transmission, but there are more important things to focus on now. He thinks about what he knows; that Mary loves John is not in doubt, and Sherlock cannot imagine her cheating, but getting pregnant on purpose as a way of keeping John? Yes, he could see her doing that.

Sherlock contemplates the memory stick hidden with his single remaining drug stash in the flat. He copied it one night when John was asleep, knowing that the doctor would destroy the original when he forgave Mary, and that someday he may live to regret being so rash. Sherlock has never looked at it, keeping it with his emergency supply for a reason, in a place that he hadn’t opened since before John moved in. If there is cause to think Mary is still telling lies, is now the time to read the contents?

Sherlock doesn’t know how long he has stood on the roof, but he has smoked his way through eight cigarettes, and the light is considerably lower than when he came up here. He’s been in his mind palace re-examining every interaction he ever had with Mary; every deduction he ever made about her. It was intentional, to deduce as little as possible, no longer having the right to get involved in John’s affairs. However much he secretly wanted John to come back to Baker Street, he knew he couldn’t be the one to mention it; the doctor still held so much anger over The Fall and would likely rebel against any idea that came from Sherlock. A natural end to the relationship would come.

Except it didn’t. This time it was serious. In hindsight, he wishes he had looked at her more closely, and maybe some of this mess could have been avoided.

For once in his life, the consulting detective hopes that his deduction is wrong. This will break John, and he knows he will have to be the one to do it.

Sherlock Holmes stands on the ledge and looks over, down to the pavement below, and remembers another hospital, another rooftop, another place he had broken John Watson’s heart.

**

Stretched out on the sofa back at Baker Street, Sherlock absentmindedly adds a fourth nicotine patch to his arm. It’s a four patch problem. He thinks he has been lying there for two days, but maybe it’s only one. Time seems different in his mind palace. He is still wearing the same clothes, hasn’t showered or eaten, though the empty cups on the table show him that he must have at least had some tea. Hudders’ doing, no doubt.

The light on his phone is flashing, and he distantly recalls hearing it beep, but every message has been ignored. It will just be John, wondering where he is, but he can’t go back to the hospital, can’t see his best friend whose world he’s about to destroy.

John has already informed Mrs. Hudson of the birth and asked her to be godmother; Sherlock had purposely neglected to mention it to her. She’s flitting about the flat, talking about knitting, or some such nonsense. He does his best to drown it all out. Just lies on the sofa, and smokes.

After much deliberation, Sherlock had decided against reading the memory stick; believing that if Mary has lied about the father of her baby, it is unlikely to be related to her past, and anything on the drive is therefore irrelevant.

If she has lied about the father of her baby.

If.

But he knows deep down, it’s not an ‘if’.

The question of what to do next, is the hardest part for Sherlock. Should he speak to Mary? Insist that she tells John? Will that make a difference, or will John still be angry that Sherlock caused this? He _did_ cause this, with his ridiculous brain seeing things that nobody else would see. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all. People can live happily in ignorance, can’t they? Well, not him obviously, but _normal_ people.

The detective is rudely brought out of another round of self-recrimination by the chime of his phone, and simultaneous knock at the door. It’s the first message he has looked at since he’s been home; it’s the one he’s been waiting for:-

[Received 18.06]  
_Results are on their way to you now. MH_

[Received 18.07]  
_Tell Dr. Watson, I am sorry. MH_

 


	7. Chapter 7

When Sherlock strides into the hospital the next morning he is dressed in a clean suit and shirt, hair perfectly styled, with his Belstaff providing the armour needed to project an air of confidence he doesn’t feel. The envelope he received last night, tucked into the inside pocket of his coat, feeling like a millstone around his neck.

As he approaches Mary’s room, he can hear her laughter, along with the voices of John and Lestrade. They are turned away from him, as John shows the detective some photos on his phone, so Sherlock leans against the door frame to watch them. John seems genuinely happy; something he hasn’t been for quite some time.

Lestrade catches sight of him first, beaming at him excitedly, ‘Well, if it isn’t the elusive godfather.’

John spins around quickly, face lighting up at the sight of his friend.

‘Sherlock! I was starting to wonder what the hell had happened to you. Not that hard to reply to a bloody text, you git.’ John laughs affectionately, as he claps a hand onto Sherlock’s back.

‘I’ve been busy, John. I’m sure you remember Moriarty, popping up on everyone’s TV screens, saving me from exile…’ Sherlock replies, sarcastically. Thankfully, John has rarely been able to tell when he’s lying.

‘Yeah, alright, fair enough’, John concedes. ‘Any leads?’

‘Maybe… Nothing to worry yourself with, at this time.’ In truth, Sherlock still hasn’t spoken to Mycroft about the source of the transmission. His elder brother is impossible to deal with on a good day, and the last few days definitely haven’t been good.

‘Right… Well, you know where I am. I know I’ll be busy, but I do still want to help.’ John looks earnestly up at his friend, steadfastly ignoring the disapproving expression on his wife’s face. The laughter from moments ago, dissolved at the mention of the consulting criminal’s name.

Lestrade breaks the uncomfortable silence that follows; ‘John was just about to take me to meet Catherine –’

‘Her name is Rosamund’, Mary interrupts, unyielding.

John rolls his eyes, ‘We’re never going to agree.’ He smiles at Sherlock, ‘Are you coming down?’

Sherlock observes John’s appearance; he’s lost weight over the past few days, and judging by the dark circles under his glazed blue eyes, the older man has barely slept. Clearly the young girl’s condition has not improved, and this bothers Sherlock more than he expected. He finds he wants to see her, but he’s already too attached. Sentiment. Mycroft would be appalled.

‘I’ll follow you down shortly’, he promises, ‘I need to ask Mary some questions about the birth. I’ve been conducting a study regarding the use of human placenta in –’

‘Alright, Sherlock, I don’t want to know’, John chuckles and turns to Mary with a grimace, ‘Have fun with that, love.’

As he watches John lead Lestrade out of the door, Sherlock feels a quiet stillness descend over the room. Slowly dragging his eyes back to the bed, he meets Mary’s sharp gaze, and within a heartbeat, she knows.

‘Sherlock –’, she starts, but Sherlock stops her with a raised hand. He’s not the one she needs to explain herself to.

‘Tell him, Mary... Tell him, or I will. I don’t keep secrets from him, not anymore, certainly nothing this big.’

‘You don’t understand. I didn’t cheat on him… I would never do that.’

Sherlock shows her the envelope, ‘Two days. You have two days, then I give him this.’ He pauses to let this sink in. ‘If I tell him, it will destroy him, and he will never forgive you. But if you confess and explain...’

‘He still won’t forgive me. Not after everything I’ve done.’ Her voice is breaking, the increased beeping of the heart rate monitor betraying her distress.

‘Then that is something you will have to live with.’

‘Sherlock… Don’t do this, Sherlock!’ She pleads with him as he walks away.

He is out of the room and halfway down the corridor before he stops, resting against the wall, his hands on his knees, taking a moment to think on Mary’s words. He believes her when she says there was no affair. Donor insemination. Obvious, he should have realised. Maybe John will find this easier to accept than the alternative. But how many lies can one marriage stand?

Straightening up, Sherlock sees the sign pointing towards the neonatal ward, and in the opposite direction, the exit.

Making his decision, he leaves the building and catches a cab back to Baker Street.

**

Sherlock is sitting on the bed in John’s old room, looking at the phone in his hand. He had prepared the room two days ago, after leaving the hospital, anticipating an angry and hurt John arriving at any time. But the deadline he gave Mary had passed three hours ago, and judging by the text he had received that afternoon from his friend, she had still not confessed.

John was having a day away from the hospital to get the nursery prepared for when his daughter was finally able to go home. Mary was due to be discharged tomorrow, and John wanted to come over and spend his last free evening with his old flatmate.

If he’s honest, Sherlock would rather say no. It’s easier to keep avoiding the other man, as he has since he left the hospital, than to do what he promised Mary he would do. But, however difficult this may be, he knows he needs to tell John the truth tonight.

With a sigh, Sherlock texts John back, telling him to come over when he is ready.

Descending the stairs from the upper room, he hears the front door open and close. Ah, so John must have decided to just show up. He suddenly feels quite out of his depth; emotions being mostly uncharted territory for the pair. Deciding that they could both use a drink tonight, Sherlock searches the kitchen to find the whiskey that had been a present from his brother last Christmas.

Two glasses in hand, Sherlock enters the living room, surprised to find the steel blue eyes of Mary Watson glaring at him from the sofa.

Caught off guard, Sherlock promptly appraises the woman in front of him. She looks nothing like the Mary who had given birth only a few days ago. Her blond hair is perfectly styled and she’s smartly dressed in a blue suit that disguises her recent pregnancy. Despite her small stature, she seems to take up all of the space in the room.

She hasn’t come to beg, that much is obvious; if she had, she would have kept her look softer, more vulnerable. No, she’s come to threaten.

‘Good evening, Mary.’ Sherlock attempts to appear unconcerned by his unexpected guest. Taking both glasses in his left hand, he turns to the coat hook and removes the envelope from the pocket of his Belstaff

‘I’m not going to let you destroy this for me, Sherlock’, Mary proclaims, without preamble. ‘I love my husband, and I will do _anything_ to keep him.’ Seeing her as she is now, as she was in Leinster Gardens, Sherlock firmly believes her when she says _anything._

‘Clearly.’ Sherlock makes a show of waving the documents in the air, as he passes her. Placing the glasses on the side table, he takes a seat in his chair.

‘What else was I supposed to do?!’ Mary demands, ‘As soon as you pulled your resurrection act, it was obvious he was desperate to move back here. If he wasn’t working a case with you, he was constantly texting you. I wasn’t sure we were going to make it as far as the wedding, so I decided on a little... insurance policy _._ ’

‘You call your own child an _insurance policy_ ?’ He stares at her, stunned by her cruelty.

‘No, Sherlock, that wasn’t… I want this. I left my old life behind to settle down, start a family. But John kept saying he wasn’t ready. I did what I had to do, and I’m not sorry. He was thrilled when he found out, we would have been happy. But then Magnussen found me.’

‘Hmm… yes. I seem to remember that being around the time you attempted to murder me.’ Mary’s eyes widen in shock at Sherlock’s words, causing the detective to smirk; ‘Oh, maybe I forgot to mention, I know perfectly well it was supposed to be a kill shot.’

‘I had a second to make a decision, Sherlock. Killing you was the only way to stop John from finding out about my past, and with you out of the picture, he would have no reason to leave me.’

‘You wanted to leave your old life behind to start a family, yet you kept a silenced gun –’

‘For protection!’

‘ – black tactical clothing, broke into an office to commit murder, and didn’t hesitate to shoot an unarmed man.’

'But I did hesitate’, she looks disgusted with herself, ‘For the first time in my career, I let sentiment get in the way. I liked you, Sherlock, and that saved your life’, she stands up, brushing down her jacket, before piercing Sherlock with her eyes. ‘Make no mistake, I won’t hesitate again.’

For a long while they simply stare at each other, silently willing the other to back down, before Mary sighs and steps over to the window. Looking out into the blackness beyond, she whispers her next words.

‘If you knew I tried to kill you, why did you lie to John?’ She turns to face him, ‘I know how you feel about him, Sherlock. I thought you would have been happy for him to leave me.’

‘Because I thought you loved him… You were having his child, and I thought you loved him. But this isn’t _love…_ it’s obsession!’

Sherlock leans back in his chair, unable to look at the woman he once thought of as a friend. Picking up his glass from the table, he takes a long sip, wishing away the emotions that were threatening to break free. All the fight is leaving his body, and he needs to end this now.

‘There’s no debate here, Mary. Go back to the hospital and I’ll speak to John. You’ve had your chance to come clean.’

As predicted, Mary deflates when she realises she’s run out of options. Head down, she starts to walk towards the door, before pausing in the centre of the room, and facing him once more.

‘You’re right, Sherlock. There is no debate here.’

As Mary reaches her left hand inside her jacket, Sherlock realises it’s _him_ that’s out of options.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock prides himself on his quick reflexes, but he has heard the shot before he even contemplated moving. As time seems to stand still, he rapidly assesses himself.

He would have expected Mary to go with a head shot, after failing to make the kill shot before, but he’s clearly still thinking, so that can’t be it. Unless he’s in his mind palace, in the last few seconds prior to death; he’s certainly had some experience with _that_ before _._ He needs more data. No searing hot pain in the chest this time, in fact… no pain at all. Paralysis? God, he hopes not. Is he dying of blood loss while unable to move? Why can’t he open his eyes?

‘Sherlock? What _on Earth_ is going on up there?’ Mrs. Hudson’s voice from below breaks through the confusion, and the detective’s eyes suddenly snap open. All at once, it becomes obvious why he is feeling no pain.

Mary lies on her back in the middle of the room, a silenced Walther PPK inches from her outstretched left hand, and a small red dot trickling blood between her eyes.

‘No, no, no!’ Sherlock falls from his seat and crawls to Mary’s side, careful to avoid the line of sight from the hole that has pierced the window behind him. As he kneels beside her body, taking her hand in his, he looks into the sightless eyes of his best friend’s wife, and his own fill with unshed tears.

Momentarily overwhelmed by the complexities of his feelings for Mary, Sherlock almost doesn’t notice the footsteps hurrying up the seventeen steps to the flat.

It is unusual to see Mycroft Holmes “hurrying” anywhere, and he looks decidedly flushed when he enters the room; in contrast to Baker Street’s rather pale landlady, who has followed behind him.

‘Oh, _Mary!_ My goodness, Sherlock, whatever has happened? Oh dear, love...’ As the sobbing elderly lady makes to approach Sherlock, she is stopped by Mycroft’s hand on her arm.

‘Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to return downstairs and notify Detective Inspector Lestrade?’

‘Yes… Yes, of course… Oh dear, Sherlock… I’ll make some tea, shall I? We could all do with a nice cup of tea...’

As Mrs. Hudson’s prattling fades away, Sherlock gently passes his hand over Mary’s eyes, closing them. He rises slowly and walks up to his brother until they are standing toe to toe.

‘This was _you?!’_ He hisses, venomously, spittle flying from his lips as he speaks.

Mycroft looks faintly disgusted but refuses to step back.

‘Did you really think I would leave you unprotected? You have first-hand knowledge of how she reacts when her relationship with John is threatened.’ Mycroft’s eyes quickly flick down to Sherlock’s chest, and the detective feels a painful throb coming from his scar. ‘We’ve kept a weather eye on her since we discovered who she was, but after your _confrontation_ , I thought it wise to place one of our agents in the opposite flat. You backed her into a corner, Sherlock… And you wonder why I insist on keeping cameras in here.’

Standing as close as he is, the temptation is too much for Sherlock, and he gets a twisted pleasure from the yelp of agony as his knee connects with his brother’s groin.

‘She didn’t come here to _kill_ me, for god’s sake!' Maybe not initially, he concedes to himself, but there was no doubt about her final intentions.

Mycroft falls into John’s chair trying, and failing, to conceal a wince of pain. ‘Unwise, Sherlock...' He glares at the younger man, while subtly clutching himself. 'You have a blind spot where she is concerned. Why are you so determined to see some good in her?’

‘She’s John’s wife! Not to mention the mother of a newborn baby – what’s going to happen to her now? She didn’t even occur to you, did she?’

‘No’, the older man states, plainly, ‘You safety was my only concern.’

‘My safety was never compromised, Mycroft. She came here to reason with me, and if that didn’t work she was prepared to threaten me; to warn me not to say anything to John.’ Sherlock isn’t even aware of why he is lying now, it being too late to convince his brother not to take action, and the events having been recorded on the multiple devices in the room.

‘On pain of death, no doubt. So what would you have expected her to do when you defied her, brother mine? She was believed to be in the hospital, was she not? It would have been the perfect time.’

‘With Mrs. Hudson downstairs? Without any sort of disguise? She was a smart woman, Mycroft, she saw me walk out of the kitchen with two whiskey glasses, and who’s going to visit me? Maybe you, but I wouldn’t pour you a drink. No, she would have known John was on his way over, and she never would have risked –’

He breaks off, realising what he has just said, his eyes widening in panic. Neither of them speak, and the silence in the room only amplifies the sound of the front door clicking shut.

‘ _Jesus_ , Mrs. H! You made me jump – is everything alright?’ John’s voice echoes loudly in the quiet building.

‘Oh… John, I’m sorry...’ Mrs. Hudson sobs.

‘What’s happened, is he alright?’ There’s panic in his voice now; the last time he had seen his landlady truly cry had been when she was notified of Sherlock’s “death”.

‘He’s okay, love, but maybe you shouldn’t go up –’

Her words are drowned out by the sound of John shouting Sherlock’s name and the thundering of his feet on the stairs. Sherlock finds himself frozen to the spot, unable to do anything to stop the inevitable.

John pauses on the threshold and simply stares. For a moment it’s as if he is uncomprehending, before his brain catches up with what his eyes can see.

‘Oh god, no! Mary? _Mary!'_ The doctor runs into the room, kneeling at his wife’s side, grabbing her wrist and searching for the pulse it’s clear he won’t find. He touches a hand to her neck and lifts her eyelids, ‘Mary… what have they done? Oh god…’ He pleads, fruitlessly, his pain bleeding into every word as he runs a tender hand through Mary’s blond hair, suddenly feeling so dizzy that his vision starts to blur.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a motion as Sherlock begins to crouch down next to him, arm extended to wrap around his friend’s shoulder.

‘John...’

‘Get away from me, Sherlock’, John growls the words, and the threat is clear, but Sherlock stands his ground. ‘I mean it… back away.’

‘John… I’m so sorry… I –’

John jumps up so quickly he knocks Sherlock off balance, causing him to stagger backwards. He rights himself but keeps a distance from his friend, aware of the fierce anger emanating from every pore. Sherlock sees John sniff, the way he does when he’s violently furious, the right side of his nose turning up sharply.

‘ _You made a vow!’_

Sherlock is painfully aware that John is right; he’s failed to uphold the only vow he has ever made. John has ever right to be angry, just as he did when Sherlock returned from the dead, though this far eclipses anything that he witnessed back then.

Two of Mycroft’s agents appear at the door, and after looking to their boss for confirmation, head towards Mary with a stretcher and body bag, but the former army captain moves to stand between them, and stares down the man nearest to him.

‘Touch her, and I will break every bone in your body.’ John tilts his head to one side, clenching and unclenching his left fist, ready to make good on his word.

‘Leave her’, Mycroft orders, and the two men place their items on the floor before moving to a position near the kitchen. Close enough to intervene, if necessary.

John turns his attention towards the older man, ‘What the hell was she doing here? Was this another plan you neglected to inform me of? Let’s see if we can destroy Watson’s world again, hmm?’

Mycroft doesn’t answer, he simply moves past John and bends to collect the fallen envelope from the floor in front of Sherlock’s chair.

‘Mycroft, no… Please, John, don’t read that now.’

‘You don’t get to tell me what to do. You just killed my wife.’ His voice is trembling with barely concealed rage.

Sherlock is silent… Because he did, didn’t he? It’s his fault that she is lying dead at their feet. If he had just kept his nose out of their business, they wouldn’t be here now, and Mary would still be alive.

John takes the envelope from Mycroft’s hand, flicking it open and removing the documents from within. It doesn’t take more than a cursory glance for the medical man to know what he is looking at.

Immediately, the final piece of John’s composure shatters and he staggers limply to Sherlock’s chair, whole body shaking. As he reads again the information in front of him, the tears finally make their escape, cascading down his cheeks like two rivers bursting their banks. ‘My baby girl...’

Sherlock is distraught watching his friend’s grief; eyes stinging with the effort to hold back his own tears, while desperately wanting to offer the comfort he can see would not be welcome.

‘ _Christ!’_ A rather dishevelled and shocked looking Lestrade stands by the door, surveying the scene in front of him; his tie crooked and his hair sticking up from where his hands had been pulling at it repeatedly, clearly having gotten dressed in a hurry following the distressing phone call from Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft moves to apprise the D.I of the events of the evening, leading him up the stairs towards the upper room to talk privately.

John stands and approaches Sherlock; grief and anger turning his tranquil blue eyes into black swirling storms.

‘You _knew_ … You knew my wife was having someone else’s child and you kept it from me!’

‘No, John –’ Sherlock begins, but can barely get the words out before he is cut off.

‘You knew that poor little girl wasn’t mine! How could you let me go through that, hmm?’ John is shouting now, choking back the tears, moving backwards and forwards in perpetual motion, in an attempt to dispel the tension coursing through his body.

‘You’ve destroyed everything I have ever loved, with your secrets and lies. _Both_ of you!’ He turns his attention to Mary now, pointing an accusing finger at her unresponsive form.

‘The two people I love most in the world… betraying me, over and over… breaking my heart…’ He sobs quietly, shielding his eyes from the view of the others.

‘John… mate?’ Greg looks a broken man as he re-enters the room, coming towards his friend with an overnight bag in one hand. He lays the other on John’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

‘Come on, we’ll go back to my place, yeah? Come on, mate, let’s get out of here, I’ve packed you some stuff.’

John allows himself to be led towards the stairs, passing close to Sherlock, who is still standing motionless, but showing no signs of being aware that he is there.

Just as he reaches the door, John stops, straightens his spine, and turns back. Giving a short, sharp nod to the body of his late wife, John leaves 221b, believing wholeheartedly that he will never return.

The agents who have been waiting for their cue, quickly and effectively remove the woman they knew as Mary Watson from the flat. Sherlock watches her pass, head bowed in a kind of reverence, before moving to sit rigidly on the sofa, scarcely able to believe the events of the past hour. Mycroft sits down next to him, offering silent support, and for the next thirty minutes neither of them move or speak.

When Anthea appears in the doorway, Mycroft places a gentle hand on his brother’s leg, conveying all of the sentiment he is able, and a heartfelt apology for the fact he has to leave; but the younger man doesn’t react.

An indeterminable length of time later, Sherlock, realising he is now alone in the quiet flat, places his head in his hands and cries.


	9. Chapter 9

John had not been able to stay at Greg’s flat for more than one night. Neither of them had known what to say, and John found the D.I’s constant presence gave him no room to sort through his chaotic thoughts. Shortly after arriving he had excused himself to sleep.

Though his friend had given up his bed for him, John had barely slept at all, his waking moments were filled with thoughts of the family he had lost, but his lone thirty minute slumber had ended abruptly with an image of Sherlock, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his chest. Upon waking, John had almost reached for his phone, before the memories of the previous night had hit him like a lightning bolt. Greg was already up when John came downstairs with his bag and asked to be taken home.

The doctor’s lack of sleep is evident on his face as he and Greg let themselves into the house he had shared with Mary in Northwood; three days’ worth of, mostly grey, stubble darkening his jaw and heavy purple bruises hanging under his glazed eyes.

Their home was exactly as he’d left it the night before, though Mary’s few belongings dotted around the room seem to stand out starkly now, the sight of them causing him to pause in the doorway, resulting in Greg walking straight into the back of him.

‘Oh… sorry…’ John seems miles away as he dumps his bag on the floor where he stands and still doesn’t move. Greg manoeuvres around him and into the kitchen.

‘I’ll put the kettle on – tea or coffee?’

‘Actually, mate, I think I’m gonna go to bed. Need a bit of time alone, you know?’

‘Right… well… I’m not necessarily sure that’s a good idea. Can’t force you, though. I can swing round this afternoon and come with you to the hospital, if you want.’

‘The hospital?’ John looks up at his friend, confusion written all over his face. Mary was dead, why were they going to the hospital?

‘Yeah… I thought you’d want to see your daughter.’

‘I don’t have a daughter.’ John says this as a simple statement of fact, spoken in a flat, emotionless tone, as though the girl had simply ceased to exist in his mind. However, the look in his eyes shows he’s fighting hard to keep his emotions in check. Greg’s heart breaks a little more.

‘Mate...’

‘No. Don’t. I can’t...’ It’s a serious warning, and one that Greg heeds.

‘Okay… alright. I’ll maybe see if Sherlock –’ The glare John levels at him makes him stop. ‘Right… yeah. Um… Listen, this is bloody awkward, but I’ll need to take your gun.’

‘What? I don’t...’ He tries, before remembering that his friend is all too aware of the gun’s existence.

‘John… I can’t, in all good conscience, leave you with a weapon today.’

John sighs, thinks about putting up more of a protest, but doesn’t have the energy. Climbing the stairs to the bedroom, struggling with the ache in his left leg, he crouches to open the safe in the back of the wardrobe. The code, usually entered on auto-pilot, makes John pause, the memories it conjures are unwelcome today. He needs to change it, but he can’t do that without entering the old one first. It shouldn’t be so hard. Taking a deep breath, he punches in the numbers without looking – 290110.

Task completed, John returns to the living room, taking the clip from the pistol’s grip, and hands both parts over. ‘Greg… there’s really no need.’

‘No, maybe not, but I remember what happened after Sherlock...’ The mention of the name earns him another glare, though John drops it quickly, understanding the worry he must be causing.

‘It’s not like that… Not this time.’

After a moment of awkward silence, the detective places the gun parts in his pocket, and clears his throat, ‘I’ll pop by tomorrow, but call me if you need anything. Any time. Try to get some sleep, okay?’

John nods, both of them know that he’s lying, sleep will not come easily today.

He waits until the door softly closes, then as soon as he is alone John seeks out the bottle of Macallan that had been a Christmas present from Mycroft. Knocking back the first shot the moment the whisky hits the glass, he swiftly pours another, taking a gulp and leaning heavily on the kitchen counter as a wave of nausea strikes him. It dawns on him that he hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and as a doctor he suspects that drinking at 11am on an empty stomach is somewhat unwise… But he’s entitled, isn’t he?

Topping up the glass again he takes it, and the bottle, upstairs to the second bedroom.

The newly built cot sits in the centre of the pale yellow room, a solar system mobile hanging above it; ironically, a present from Sherlock. In his mind, John tears it down and smashes it beneath his feet, but in reality he can do nothing except slowly slide down the wall next to the door and sit himself on the floor.

There is so much anger beneath the surface; he’s furious at his supposed “best friend”. You don’t keep secrets like that from your friends. But that’s all the bloody genius has ever done, keep everything of importance to himself – Christ, he didn’t even include him in the plan to have his own wife shot, so why would he bother to let him know that the child he was planning to raise wasn’t his own? So, yes, John is furious, but without the energy to expel the rage in any way, he drinks; one shot for every time Sherlock has been at fault.

Five shots later, it’s not lost on John that he is essentially blaming Sherlock for Mary; her death, the baby, Magnussen, the shooting, even marrying her in the first place! But it _is_ his fault, isn’t it? If he had never jumped off that bloody roof… or maybe if he had never come back at all...

John feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket, fumbling to pull it out, knowing exactly who it will be; Mycroft. He hangs up, just as he has the previous four times. There are also texts from Sherlock that came in last night, but after reading the first one, a simple, _“I didn’t know, John”,_ he’s refused to look at the others. Lies. He should block the bastard’s number and be done with it, but for now he turns his phone off and vows not to think about the Holmes brothers for the foreseeable future.

John squeezes his eyes shut at the flood of anger that threatens to engulf him, he has so many questions, yet the only answer he can see is to pour himself another drink.

**

_Work is the best antidote to sorrow._

Those were the words Sherlock had stated to Mrs. Hudson, when her constant motherly presence had become oppressive. He sat at his desk, flicking through papers and reading his email, but in truth, he has no desire to take cases; his focus instead entirely on how to help John.

Sherlock was in pain; a physical tightness in his chest which some would call heartbreak, a feeling he attributed to John’s fearsome anger and subsequent silence. He was refusing to accept that he had lost Mary too, and maybe more importantly, he had lost his one and only chance to be involved with the life of a child. “Godfather” was an honour of which he did not think he was worthy, though as with everything he does, he had been determined to fulfil the duty to the best of his considerable ability.

After everyone had vacated the flat, Sherlock had changed into his pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt, ignoring the scones and tea that Mrs. Hudson had been trying to feed him. He sat himself on the backrest of his chair, his feet on the cushion, nervously twirling his mobile phone in his hand. The detective had text his friend a number of times, to offer his condolences and to insist he was not aware of Mycroft’s plan, but his phone had so far remained silent.

If John won’t speak to him, then he believes the best thing he can do to help him is to get to the truth. Or maybe it’s just Sherlock that needs answers; needs to understand the dichotomy of the woman in love, who wanted to settle down and have a baby, versus the woman with no morals who killed people for money. He knew she couldn’t give up that side of herself, any more than Sherlock could give up being a detective.

With this in mind, he marches into the kitchen, bare feet cold on the tile, and uses his rather inconsiderable weight to shift the refrigerator away from the wall, disconnecting it. Locating a screwdriver in the cluttered draw near the sink, Sherlock makes quick work of removing the double socket cover from the wall.

Reaching deep inside the exposed space, Sherlock removes a dusty black case, similar in size and appearance to a child’s pencil case; though the contents are anything but childish. Nestled inside what appears to be a purpose built lining, sits a vial of clear liquid, morphine, if he remembers correctly (and he always remembers correctly), together with three disposable needles and an antique syringe.

Sherlock’s long pale fingers dance over the contents, fondly caressing the items, before removing the syringe to get to the item he came for; a silver memory stick marked with the letters A.G.R.A. The original, in fact. Neither John, nor Mary, had noticed that the drive John threw into the fire was a painstakingly crafted copy.

Looking longingly at his emergency stash, he quickly zips up the case and places it back in the wall, leaving the socket open. The temptation is strong; the urge to block out the emotions almost unbearable, but the thought of John’s disappointment is enough to make him walk away. He doesn’t need to give the doctor any further reason to hate him.

Sherlock props himself up against the arm of the sofa, long legs stretched out with the computer resting on his lap, absently attaching another nicotine patch to his already covered arm.

At first glance the drive appears to be blank; this doesn’t particularly surprise Sherlock, the idea that Mary was simply manipulating John’s feelings and never had any intention of sharing her past. However, on closer inspection, the cursor of his mouse disappears when hovering over the top left hand corner of the screen. A simple trick, amateur. Nobody would be fooled for long. Unless they're Anderson.

Double clicking on the area opens up a password box, but it seems Mary is even worse at passwords than John (their wedding date, in text, converted into a decimal), therefore it takes mere seconds for Sherlock to open the file.

It’s a simple spreadsheet, two tabs, the first containing only a list of names. He’ll leave it to Mycroft’s people to investigate them, but after glimpsing the name Alison Grace Rosamund Aldridge, he concludes they are Mary’s aliases. It’s doubtful that Alison Aldridge is her birth name, she wouldn’t have used that for work, but Rosamund may be, considering her insistence on using the name for her daughter. Sherlock wonders if it’s something John might want to know.

The second tab yields more interesting data; columns listing clients, targets, dates, and payments, together with a note as to whether the job was successful. They all were. The dates go as far back as 1998 and appear to end in January 2013, presumably when Mary became Mary and, according to her own story, retired. Though Sherlock doesn’t believe she ever really did, and the existence of several ghost lines at the bottom of the spreadsheet would appear to support his deduction; something has been deleted.

Knowing there isn’t a lot he can do with the data himself, Sherlock begins to type an encrypted email to Mycroft, and despite an aversion to speaking with his brother, simultaneously makes the call.

‘ _Sherlock? Is everything –_ ’

‘I’m fine’, Sherlock cuts off Mycroft’s uncharacteristic show of concern. ‘I have Mary’s memory stick.’

‘ _Ah_ … _I should have known you wouldn’t allow John to destroy the original. I assume you have already sent me the file?’_

‘Sending it now. There are names to be looked into, possible aliases, and some deleted information that I need you to retrieve.’

‘ _Consider it done... Out of interest, brother mine, is there any mention of a St. Caedwalla’s hospital? We traced the Moriarty transmission to that exact location.’_

Sherlock frowns at the name, the patron saint of repentant murderers, and scrolls back up to the top of the depressingly long list to study it closer.

‘No, it doesn’t appear so, why do you –’ He stops abruptly as his eyes flit over a name and date he recognises.

The scientist in him knows it isn’t possible for your blood to literally run cold, but that is precisely how he would describe this feeling.

‘ _What is it? Sherlock?’_

‘Oh god… I’m an idiot. An absolute moron!’

‘ _Sherlock?’_

‘The pool, Mycroft… she was at the pool.’

Sherlock hangs up on his brother without waiting for a response, immediately dialling John’s number; straight to voicemail. He tries again, three times, with the same result, before beginning to text: -

[Sent 21.14]  
_John?_

[Sent 21.15]  
_She knew you. I didn't see it. I'm sorry._

Sherlock runs his eyes swiftly over the list, again and again, but there is no other mention of Jim Moriarty’s name. He returns to that single line of text; the location of the swimming pool where Carl Powers died, the date in April of 2010. A payout of £25,000 for a successful job, despite no shots being fired. The target’s name: John Watson.

Sherlock pulls the drive out of his laptop and throws it in the direction of the kitchen. If there was ever a chance that John would forgive him for Mary’s death, that chance is lost now. His failure to deduce her multitude of lies, has caused his friend so much pain. He needs to focus, he needs to _think!_ If Mary worked for Moriarty, even just once, could she have something to do with his recent resurrection? John. He needs John to calm his thoughts and help him see, but still no messages have come through.

He calls again, and while pacing the length of the room, he speaks to John’s voicemail.

‘The pool, John, she was one of the bloody snipers at the pool… She worked for him… How did I not see it? I should have seen it, I should have _looked!_  But I didn’t want to look, did I? No, I wanted you to be _happy_... John... I... The gall of that woman... she sat there pointing a gun at your heart and then she… then she _married you._ God… I’m sorry, I –’

Sherlock’s rambling tirade is cut short by the beeping signifying the end of the recording. He frowns at his mobile as if it is personally at fault for the length of a voicemail message, before slipping it into his dressing gown pocket. He picks up the drive from the kitchen floor, and begins to replace it in the wall socket; hard evidence, should John ever require it. He tells himself there is no reason to panic, this is all in the past, both Mary and Moriarty are dead, but his hands are shaking as he unzips the black case.

Removing the syringe to place the drive beneath it, Sherlock falters, eyes lingering over the vial full of his drug of choice. Before John, only one thing had the ability to focus his racing mind, and he is looking at it now. He tells himself that he doesn’t need it anymore, that even without John, there are still so many reasons why he shouldn’t do this.

Later, he will admit to himself that he never really stood a chance.


	10. Chapter 10

The sunlight dappling the nursery carpet is John’s only indication of the current time of day. When the light reaches an arbitrary point, John decides it is noon, and drags himself into the kitchen to cross the previous day off the calendar. It’s imprecise, at best, but his phone is dead, and he has no idea where he left his watch, so this is the way he chooses to count the days following Mary’s death.

Since returning home from Greg’s three days ago, he had only left the house once; to replace Mycroft’s long drunk whisky with three much cheaper alternatives. He hasn’t showered or even cleaned his teeth, his mouth tasting like the bottom of a rubbish bin.

With a pronounced limp, John takes himself into the bathroom, splashing water on his face before studying his reflection in the mirror; is it possible that he’s aged ten years in the last few days? The wrinkles around his bloodshot eyes appear deeper, and he certainly looks to have gained a few grey hairs, most noticeably in his newly grown beard; a beard that he hates, but doesn’t have the motivation to shave. He no longer looks like an army captain, but a sad, middle-aged man. A sad, middle-aged man whose wife had been having an affair. A sad, middle-aged man who worked with the world’s greatest detective, yet didn’t _deduce_ that his wife was having an affair.

Closing his eyes against the sudden flare of white-hot anger, he digs his fingers into his left shoulder and rotates it slowly. There’s a painful ache deep within, that forces him to clean his teeth with his right hand; the pitfalls of sleeping on a hard floor. Each night he tells himself he’ll go to bed, and each morning he wakes with no recollection of falling asleep.

John is vaguely aware that he should have returned to work by now. Expecting that his boss will have tried to call, he charges his phone in the kitchen, booting it up to find fifty-six text messages and twenty-three missed calls. Sighing, he plays his voicemail messages on loudspeaker while pouring his first drink of the day.

‘ _John? It’s Margaret from the clinic. We were expecting you back at work this morning, could you give us a call?’_ [Deleted]

‘ _John, love, it’s Margaret again. We’re a bit worried we can’t reach you or Mary, is everything okay with the baby?’_ [Deleted]

‘ _Dr. Watson, this is Dr. Wilkins from University College Hospital. We’ve been unable to locate Mrs. Watson – ’_ [Deleted]

‘ _The pool, John – ’_ Upon hearing the familiar baritone, John quickly puts the phone to his ear, chastising himself for his instinctive needto listen to Sherlock’s voice. When the message cuts off, he can’t quite believe what he has heard, even after playing it for the fourth time.

It takes almost twenty-four hours, and a significant amount of alcohol, before the information finally pierces through the fog, and when it does, John can no longer contain his anger.

Picking up the hideous elephant ornament, which Mary insisted on displaying in the lounge, he hurls it at the wall, satisfied when it shatters upon impact. It’s so therapeutic, he follows it up with anything he can get his hands on. The symbolism is not lost on him – the destruction of a life that never existed.

Everything about his relationship had been false, right from the start. The last two years of his life have been nothing but a lie. John recalls Mary’s words from the hospital; _“I remembered you. And I knew you’d be sad.”_

So… what? She had taken a liking to him whilst aiming a gun at his heart? Decided to comfort him when his best friend died, thanks to the man she used to work for? That’s sick, he thinks as he finishes breaking up each and every photo frame on the wall, it would have been easier to stomach if she had still been working for Moriarty.

At this moment, he hates her. It’s an all consuming hatred, burning through his veins and making it difficult to recall a time when he _didn’t_ hate her; though he could never despise someone so fiercely if he hadn’t previously loved them deeply. Despite her motivation, she _was_ there when he had been grieving Sherlock, and he may not have survived without her. But the lies… the pregnancy…

It’s too much.

Drawing out a pair of scissors from the knife block, he stumbles to the master bedroom, pulling every item of Mary’s clothing from the wardrobe, and throwing it on the bed. Despite his blood alcohol level, the former army doctor manages to use a surgeon’s skill when methodically slicing each piece of his wife’s clothing, thin strips littering the floor.

With each item John destroys, a piece of his anger is cut away and replaced with a dark pit of guilt. He is not unaware that his own behaviour, and his feelings for Sherlock, had played a part in Mary’s actions. Maybe it was he who had betrayed her. Maybe he had betrayed them both.

By the time he enters the quiet sanctity of the second bedroom, he is considerably calmer. He’d been preparing to give this room the same treatment as the others, but when he picks up the bee adorned babygrow, the guilt overwhelms him.

John crumples to the floor as hot tears stream down his face.

***

Though Greg had been round to check on him once, John had refused any further visitors. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Mike had all been left at the door, a single text message to let them know he was still in the land of the living.

With his concern for John mounting, Detective Inspector Lestrade decided to put his lock-picking skills to the test.

When he walked through the Watson’s kitchen door, his immediate thought was that someone else had already broken in. Pieces of glass and ceramic were strewn across the floor, picture frames missing from the walls, and flowers dying on the carpet.

But Lestrade is not the incompetent detective that Sherlock likes to make him out to be, and it doesn’t take him long to conclude that John had done this himself.

A few plates with bread crumbs tell Greg that John has managed to survive on a diet of toast alone. Although he may be getting his calories from the multitude of empty alcohol bottles lining the kitchen worktop.

As there was no sign of the man of the house, the detective picked his way through the debris and quietly made his way upstairs.

The sight before him was enough to make the reasonably stoic detective shed a tear; his friend, his brave, courageous friend, curled on his side in the room which would have been a nursery, clutching an item of child’s clothing to his chest.

Though he is loath to wake him, the man needs to be sleeping in a real bed.

‘John? Wake up, mate. You need to get into bed.’ Greg speaks softly to his friend, rousing him gently, wary of him lashing out at a perceived intruder.

John blinks open his crusted eyes, vision blurry with his hangover. Turning himself onto his back, he looks up at the older man, confused.

‘Greg?’

‘Christ, you look like shit. Let me get you some water.’

Whilst Greg disappears downstairs, John staggers into his room, deciding that going to bed might not be a bad idea. Pulling his jumper over his head, with some difficulty, he collapses on the mattress.

As the detective returns, carefully balancing two cups of tea, a pack of biscuits, and a glass of water, his eyes widen at the tatters on the floor.

‘Don’t. I know. I just snapped.’ John’s voice is like sandpaper; harsh and rough. He takes an appreciative gulp of his water.

‘It’s not just this, though, is it?’ Greg indicates the mess with a wave of his arm. ‘It’s the drinking.’

‘Aren’t I entitled to a drink? After all of their lies fucking everything up?’

‘John… Sherlock really didn’t know.’ Greg whispers the words, mindful of the reaction the name might provoke.

There’s nothing but silence from John as he stares into his tea cup. There’s something else Greg needs to say, John can tell.

‘Listen… the hospital have been trying to reach you. They called Sherlock, he’s still your emergency contact, he told them about Mary. Your daughter… Catherine?’ Greg waits for confirmation that doesn’t come.

‘It’s not good news, mate.’ He sits down on the bed next to his friend, never comfortable being the bearer of bad news.

Still only silence.

‘She’s ill, John. Really ill. The doctors don’t think there is much they can do for her now. You should be with her.’

John doesn’t look up, and for a moment Greg thinks he hasn’t heard him, and is about to try again, when John speaks.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, I really am, but she’s not mine, Greg. There’s someone out there who should have the chance to be her father.’

‘For god’s sake! You may not have supplied the DNA, but you’re her father, there is no-one else, and she needs you.’

John knocks his tea back, like a shot of the whisky he craves.

‘Nobody needs me.’

A million responses come to Greg’s mind, about how his friends need him, how _Sherlock_ needs him, but none of them will make a blind bit of difference with the mood John is in now.

‘Okay… alright… Why don’t you get into bed, get a decent sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow.’

John pulls the duvet over himself, willing to sleep if it means avoiding this conversation.

He’s unconscious before his friend has even left the room.

Closing the door softly, Greg resolves to stay here for the rest of the day and night, hopefully managing to keep John away from the booze and sleeping as much as possible.

Descending the stairs wearily, and heaving an exaggerated put-upon sigh, he begins the mammoth task of clearing up.

***

 By the time John awakens the next morning, all signs of his destruction have been cleaned away, and the Detective Inspector appears to have vacated the premises; although John can tell that the sofa was slept on.

Whether he’s hungover, or still drunk, it’s unsure, but he doesn’t visibly react when he enters the kitchen to find the British Government perched on one of his dining chairs; he simply walks behind him to the kettle, placing his bottle and glass on the side, and begins to prepare some much-needed coffee.

It’s always coffee now, never tea, tea only reminds him of Sherlock.

In a show of defiance, he pointedly doesn’t make a drink for his unexpected guest.

Mycroft, clad in his usual three-piece suit, umbrella propped up against the table, is tapping away on John’s laptop. Why he bothers with a password, he really doesn’t know.

John’s surprised by his lack of violent urges towards the man who is ultimately responsible for his wife’s death. Maybe it’s because he never liked him, so there was no real sense of betrayal. Maybe he’s just numb.

Taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, the doctor sips his coffee and waits.

‘You seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that my brother was aware of my decision to place a marksman opposite the flat, or that he was aware that Mary planned to visit. He wasn’t. Nor was he keeping secrets from you regarding the child.’

‘I’m not interested in anything you, or your fucking brother, have got to say, and I’d like my laptop back. Anything else?’

Mycroft stops typing, raising an eyebrow at the curse, and pushes the laptop across the table to John.

‘I’ve securely uploaded the footage from 221b on the night of...’ He trails off.

John scoffs, ‘I thought you promised to get rid of the cameras?.’

A slight smirk lifts the side of the older man’s lips, ‘I simply forgot.’

‘Yeah, that’s likely… And I’m still not interested.’

‘Well, you have it now, I’ll leave it with you…’ Mycroft stands to leave, straightening his waistcoat.

‘With regards to your daughter –’

‘I don’t have a daughter, do I?!’ John interrupts, unable to face talking about her again.

‘Quite… But you could have. I believe she has not yet been registered, you can be named on the paperwork as her father, just as you would have been in... other circumstances. It will be expected, as the widower of the mother.’

John doesn’t answer, it’s not clear if he has really understood, he just stares blankly at the other man.

‘Think about it… For what it’s worth, I am so very sorry, John.’

Mycroft lets himself out through the kitchen door and John slams the lid of the laptop closed, refusing to entertain the idea of looking at the footage.

Taking his barely touched coffee over to the sink, John tips the contents away and replaces it with a hefty dose of whisky. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism, he knows. He’ll worry about that tomorrow.

Glancing at the calendar next to him on the fridge, he sees it’s been eight days since Mary died. The date in four days time jumps out at him from the mostly blank month of January; a yellow smiley face drawn around the number twenty-nine.

John wonders what Sherlock is doing at this very moment.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Too loud. Too bright. Everything is too much.

He can’t have miscalculated, the idea is preposterous, but it has been many years since he has partaken in this quantity in such a short space of time. It wasn’t suicide, but if it happened along the way…

Sherlock’s head is resting on the wooden floorboards of his bedroom; unwashed hair hanging limp, greasy and matted, long enough that the curls have begun to drop out. His eyes are bloodshot and unfocused, and there’s a five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. His blue dressing gown is tea stained (at least, he thinks it’s tea), and his ratty t-shirt has seen better days, hanging off his limp frame. His long, pyjama clad legs are propped up on his mattress, the usually exquisite softness of his Egyptian cotton bed sheets feeling rough beneath Sherlock’s bare feet; the sound of every movement obnoxiously loud. The position is hell on his coccyx, but he’s currently too high to care.

The rubber tourniquet still so tight around his upper arm that his fingers are turning chalk white. The antique syringe (reserved for his highest quality produce) resting beside his outstretched hand; the empty vial of his latest concoction, partially rolled under the bed. Speedballing was always a weakness of Sherlock’s, followed by a morphine chaser on his worst days.

Sherlock looks around the room, confused; wasn’t he in the bathroom? Or was that yesterday?

Ah… yes, of course… Mrs. Hudson.

Since Mary’s death, Mrs. Hudson had been under strict instructions not to let anybody through the door to 221b, and nobody argues with Mrs. H, not even Mycroft.

Sherlock hasn’t even been taking cases, Lestrade turned away without being granted an audience with the man himself, even when presenting with an eight. Once Sherlock stopped responding to all texts and declining calls, he knew that the woman who saw herself as his surrogate mother took it upon herself to keep his friends informed; even John, though he never replied.

When Mrs. Hudson had found him collapsed on the bathroom floor she had, of course, assumed the worst. It had taken far too long, and far too much energy, to convince her that he had simply chosen that spot for a quick nap. Though she had eventually agreed not to call an ambulance (after he had proven his competence with a brilliant deduction about her current dating life, based on the sole of her left shoe and the colour of her skirt), he was under no illusion that she hadn’t immediately called Mycroft when she left the flat. Damn that woman and her confounded intelligence.

Ah, that deduction appears to be correct; the heavy footsteps of an overweight man, interspersed with the regular tapping of an umbrella tip, signals Mycroft’s arrival.

At least his brother is easier to deal with when he’s high. Maybe he should have another hit, just to be sure.

**

Mycroft enters the flat by the kitchen door, standing stock still at the sight of the kitchen table. Chemistry equipment, beakers and burners, re-purposed for the use of “cooking” paraphernalia. Tea cups holding disposable syringes, and bags of white powder leaving trails on the wooden surface.

Mycroft makes a note to have Billy Wiggins arrested.

Nothing seems to have been cleaned or hoovered for some time, dishes piled in the sink look like they’ve been there for days, and there’s a musty smell of sweat in the air.

Ignoring the chaos for the time being, Mycroft strides down the corridor, and paying no mind to the closed door, walks straight into Sherlock’s bedroom, looking down at the pitiful mess his younger brother has become in the last week.

He sighs, ‘So it’s true, then?’

‘I can’t possibly answer that without more detail as to what may or may not be true’, Sherlock smiles, proud of himself for his coherent sentences and logical argument, though Mycroft remains unimpressed.

‘I’ve brought you a new phone. I believe your last one ended up at the bottom of the Thames.’

Sherlock waves his hand in the air dismissively. After one hundred and ninety-seven texts to John’s mobile, many simply consisting of “please”, Sherlock concluded the best course of action was to rid himself of the blasted device. Cresting two hundred messages would have been truly pathetic.

‘Sherlock, you sent me a file… You _demanded_ results.’

‘That was _weeks_ ago.’

‘It was seven days!’

Sherlock drags himself off of the floor using the bed-frame as support. The ground feels like quicksand beneath his feet, and his stomach is churning. In lieu of another hit, he grabs a packet of gingernuts from the counter as they make their way through the kitchen. They’ve always helped to settle his stomach in the past, plus there’s the added benefit of annoying his fastidious brother and his aversion to anything that creates crumbs.

Mycroft momentarily considers making them both a cup of tea, but thinks better of it. Nothing in the kitchen looks particularly sanitary.

As if reading their minds, Mrs. Hudson appears in the doorway, carrying a tray of tea and some home-made scones. Not his housekeeper indeed.

The lounge is noticeably more of a disaster than usual; sheet music fallen from the stand and scattered across the floor, the skull painting hanging precariously from its hook, as though it’s been knocked into, and a thin layer of dust covering every surface.

Stacks of files are piled on John’s chair, which Mycroft shifts to sit down, earning him an irritated look from Sherlock. John’s blanket is on Sherlock’s chair, and he wraps it around himself as he sits down.

‘Good to see you up and about, Sherlock. I do wish you would stop all this silliness. I’m terrified I’m going to find your body one day, young man.’

‘Yes, thank you Hudders, I shall endeavour to stay alive for your benefit.’ Taking a sip of his tea, he rolls his eyes.

‘Now there’s no need to be rude, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘You’re my landlady, not my _mother_.’ He takes an angry bite of a scone, scowling as if it had insulted him personally.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Hudson’, Mycroft sighs softly, signalling for her to leave before Sherlock tears her to shreds. Picking up a scone and covers it in a large layer of clotted cream.

Sherlock takes in his older brother, the deductions coming fast despite his impaired state. Mycroft has put on another 3lbs since the last time Sherlock had studied him, his waistcoat struggling because he’s too proud to admit the weight gain and buy a bigger size.

Mycroft speaks quickly before his brother can voice his deductions, ‘Do you think you could sober up long enough to discuss the information found on Ms. Morstan’s flash drive?’

‘Dull.’

‘Indeed, but necessary. We have some preliminary results from the data you provided. One detail in particular may be of some importance to Dr. Watson.’

Silence from Sherlock, focusing on eating, but Mycroft can tell from the pattern of his breathing that he is indeed listening.

‘One of the names on the spreadsheet, Sarah Melissa Saunders, has been linked to the details of a client at a fertility clinic in South Kensington. CCTV proves it to be Ms. Morstan.’

Sherlock suddenly seems to snap out of his daze, eyes focusing, pulling himself forward in his chair.

‘She was telling the truth. She didn’t have an affair?’

‘So it appears.’

Sherlock jumps to his feet, running unsteadily to the foot of the staircase leading to the next floor.

‘John? John! I have news! John?’ Sherlock waits, and an expression of annoyance crosses his face when he gets no answer. ‘John?!’

‘Sherlock… John isn’t here. He hasn’t been here for some time, remember?’

‘But… I was just talking to him…’ The sadness and confusion in Sherlock’s voice pulls at Mycroft’s heart.

‘Yes… he once said you do that.’

Sherlock takes the phone Mycroft left for him on the table, John’s number already programmed in, and he fires of a number of texts, knowing that John will never pick up a call from him.

Mycroft continues to talk, aware that Sherlock is likely to no longer be listening, but his unconscious brain will retain the information anyway.

‘Alison Grace Rosamund Aldridge appeared on records at the age of twenty-four, working for the CIA. American. According to her memory stick, she began working freelance using various aliases while still employed by the US government. At some point she clearly had enough money, or enough contacts, and left the employ of the CIA and was officially unemployed for six years. At the age of thirty-nine, Alison Aldridge died in a car accident. We believe she faked her death as Charles Magnussen had linked AGRA to one of her aliases, and the assassination of a high ranking official in Europe.

Sherlock slumps down in his seat, already bored with his brother’s voice, and starts attacking another scone.

‘Then we come to Mary Elizabeth Morstan, who appeared in England with a perfect background and, what is now, a clearly faked nursing degree. Your death, and John’s subsequent grief, gave her the perfect opportunity to construct a cover life. She replaced a nurse a Dr. Watson’s clinic, who suddenly got offered a job in Africa with Doctors Without Borders.’ When Sherlock doesn’t react, he continues, ‘Don’t worry – she’s still alive – but the timing of the offer is… interesting.’

Sherlock gets up, without even a glance at his brother, clearly not worried about the aforementioned nurse at all, and throws himself dramatically on the sofa, continuing to obsessively tap away on his phone.

‘You know, I can send this information to Doctor Watson, to save your thumbs from repetitive strain injury.’

Sherlock just continues to text with one hand, pressing down hard on a nicotine patch with the other.

‘Magnussen must have recognised Mary in a photo with John after your return. He was watching you, as you are my pressure point, and he wanted me under his thumb. I imagine he thought he had struck gold when he realised who Ms. Morstan was.’

‘Dumb luck’, Sherlock exhaled frustratedly.

‘Something like that. You were correct about the deleted cells on the spreadsheet, we restored the data to find three other sets of information. Jobs she had undertaken while she was with John. One of which while she was pregnant.’

A frown appears in the detective’s brow, causing a crease above his eyes. He picks up a plum from the fruit bowl on the table, but instead of eating it, he begins to toss it in the air and catch it, repeatedly, never taking his eyes off the ceiling above him.

‘Sherlock, are you listening?’

‘Yes, she continued working, boring. That was obvious once we knew she kept the guns and the clothes… John doesn’t need to know. What about Moriarty?’

‘The alias Laura Palmer was used for the Moriarty job and that name appears nowhere else on her records. Our searches have pulled up nothing on the name. There are multiple instances where she used the same alias for different jobs, but for the same client, but only that one mention of Moriarty. Seems it was a singular job. We have no information as to whether she was involved in the manufacture of the video, though it seems doubtful. I rather think she would have wanted you as far away from her life as possible. The staff at St. Caedwalla's have been intensively vetted, but so far, nothing. My people will continue to look into anyone with access to the hospital.’

‘Your people are less than useless.’

Sherlock sits up, ruffling his curls, and looking around the room for the source of his next hit. Listening to Mycroft for any length of time is always a painful experience, and his head is pounding.

‘If all of this information was on the memory stick, barely hidden, why would she hand it over to John and expose her past?’

‘The drugs are slowing you down, brother mine. She was already significantly exposed. The memory stick was her past, and her current cover was intact as long as John could be convinced to trust her. With Charles dead she was safe, and she had already proven that despite her fondness for you, she would kill you if she felt threatened… in any way.’ Mycroft knows the shooting had as much to do with jealousy than her cover being at risk.

He rises and walks into the kitchen, taking another look at the “dining” table. Picking up two packets of white powder he places them in his jacket before preparing to leave through the kitchen door. He can’t stop his brother, but he can make his drug use harder.

Sherlock spots the manoeuvre as he follows Mycroft into the kitchen, huffing at him in annoyance. As he leans against the sink, the older man turns back to him.

‘Oh, I almost forgot… Sherlock? You might want to pull yourself together and visit your god-daughter.’

‘I hardly think –’

‘She’s dying. Sherlock.’

As Mycroft leaves, Sherlock turns to the photograph pinned to the fridge; the one John took of the two of them with his tiny daughter.

Glancing at the calendar next to the photo, he sees it’s been eight days since Mary died. The date in four days' time jumps out at him from the mostly blank month of January; a thick black line marking the number twenty-nine.

Sherlock wonders what John is doing at this very moment.


	12. Chapter 12

‘Oh, for god’s sake! Who invented these blasted things?’ Leaning against his kitchen counter in a t-shirt and pyjama trousers, Sherlock is fumbling with the package of a disposable hypodermic syringe. Tremors in his hands make this sort of thing difficult, like opening the top of a plastic bag, but he thinks after all these years he should be an expert. His brain is addled, filled with a dense fog that has encompassed him during the forty-eight hours; the result of a large, and prolonged, cocaine binge. The days have passed in something of a blissful blur, though the echoes of his brother’s last words refuse to be silenced: _“She’s dying, Sherlock”._

Sherlock wonders what the etiquette is in a situation like this. Should he visit? He supposes he is no longer required to fulfil his godparent duties. He’s drafted numerous messages of sympathy, but so far, they remain unsent. What does one say? _Sorry that the child you thought was yours is probably going to…_

Best not.

Eventually succeeding with the packet, Sherlock collects a vial from the table and makes a beeline for his chair, tightening the tourniquet around the top of his arm and tapping at the vein. He’s coming down from a cocaine and heroin high and in dire need of morphine to soften the landing. Despite somewhat blurred vision, Sherlock fills the vessel with practised ease, checking for air bubbles. It’s more than he would usually take, but needs must.

What he really needs is a case, something to occupy his mind, distract him from these infernal _feelings_. A good one, not the rubbish Lestrade has been trying to send his way. Considering he’s not checking his email or blog, and he refuses to let the detective inspector into the flat, there’s unlikely to be one anytime soon.

The needle slips easily into the waiting vein, the plunger driving away the feelings of loneliness and boredom. Placing the empty syringe on the saucer of a nearby tea cup, Sherlock flops back in the chair, twisting to the side and throwing his legs over the arm, giving a maniacal grin to the yellow face on the wall. Leaning his head back, he closes his stormy verdigris eyes and savours the feeling of numbness washing over him.

**

Something… _someone_ … is disrupting his session. Voices sound as if they are underwater; impossible to make out, yet buzzing irritatingly around him, permeating his consciousness.

Mrs. Hudson - that bloody woman. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed, she will go away.

‘Sherlock?’

Maybe not.

‘Sherlock… you have a client, dear.’

The sound is slowly become clearer, and Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson pull a chair out from the table and usher her guest in. She knows better than to let anyone sit in John’s chair.

‘Take a seat, love, I’ll make a cup of tea.’ She opens the sliding doors to the kitchen, seeing the state of it for the first time since Billy’s last visit, ‘Oh… I’ll um… make one downstairs.’ The doors slide shut again. ‘You know you have to stop this, young man, you cannot carry on this way.’

‘Who says?’ Sherlock mumbles.

‘Mr. Holmes?’ A woman’s voice, meek, slight Yorkshire accent, probably lived in London most of her adult life, thirty…ish.

‘No clients, no cases, leave me alone!’

‘I know, dear, but this young lady was insistent. It’s time you got yourself a case again.’

‘MRS. HUDSON!’

The elderly lady scurries off back down the stairs, leaving the client sitting uncertainly in the centre of the room.

Sherlock opens one eye and takes in his visitor. Early 30s, he confirms, approximately 5’7”, wearing a floor length red dress with long sleeves. Long blond hair framing a slim face. Glasses. Nervous.

Sherlock attempts to read her, who she is and why she’s here, but his gaze is drawn to the black cane in front of her, handle clenched tightly in both hands. He slams his eyes shut against the sudden rush of memories: John Watson leaning heavily on his hospital issue cane, limping away from their first crime scene in Brixton. Sherlock can see him so vividly it’s as if he is back there, watching John from the rooftop. He can smell the rain on the ground, see the red and blue flashing of the police lights, and hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.

He blinks rapidly, shattering the illusion.

‘Mr. Holmes?’

‘Hmm, yes?’ Sherlock focuses on her, ‘Who are you and why are you disturbing me when I’m clearly very busy.’

‘Um… My name is Faith Smith. Six months ago, my father drugged me during an evening meal. It wasn’t the first time - he found the effects of ketamine amusing – but this time… this time he told me something.’

Sherlock sighs, dramatically, ‘Get to the point, I don’t have all night.’

‘He told me he wanted to kill someone.’ She pauses, clearly expecting some kind of reaction, but Sherlock simply cocks an expectant brow.

‘He must have thought I wouldn’t remember it; memory loss and hallucinations are typical side effects…’ Faith trails off, carefully regarding Sherlock sprawled in his chair, the empty syringe on the table. ‘Well… you probably know that.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

‘He just said one word, Mr. Holmes. One word, and it changed my world forever.’

‘What word?’

‘A name.’

‘What name?’

‘I can’t remember.’ She reaches down into her handbag, removing a tattered, folded, piece of paper and holding it out to Sherlock. ‘I made some notes that night, and every week I try to recall more, but came up blank. Started to think I’d dreamt the whole thing, until last night when he told me he needed to tell me something. _Needed._ It all came back to me in a flood… I made my excuses and left, hurrying to write it all down, but I still can’t remember who my father wanted to kill… and I don’t know if he ever did it.’

Sherlock takes the note, scanning it quickly, observing the multitude of small blood stains staining the paper. The words “need to kill”, “one word”, and “who?”, are each written more than once, along with the word “hospital” – which Sherlock doesn’t understand yet feels he should. His hands are trembling; he must be cold. Letting the note drop to the floor, he yanks his blue dressing gown from the back of the chair and stands, pulling it on in an uncoordinated fashion, as he weaves unsteadily towards the window near the sofa.

‘Where’s your car?’ Sherlock asks, before glancing down at the hem of Faith’s skirt. ‘Oh, of course… you don’t need a car, do you? Living in isolation, no human contact…’ Sherlock goes quiet as his gaze roams over her dress, eyes returning again to the hem gathered on the floor at her feet. He starts to walk back to his chair before pausing, a look of confusion clouding his features, ‘Hang on… Why was I looking out of the window?’

‘I don’t know.’ Faith responds, perplexed at the change of conversation.

‘Me neither… Probably noticed something…’ He’s still looking back and forth between the window and his client, having seemingly forgotten why his is standing in the middle of the room. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes, no human contact. You’ve recently ended your relationship, though there hadn’t been anything physical going on for quite some time, had there?’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘Course I can.’ Sherlock picks up the note from the floor by his chair, pointing vaguely at the page, ‘There see? It’s obvious. See the fold in the middle? Tight fold; you’ve kept this inside a book, so obviously you were keeping it hidden from someone living in the same house, at a level of intimacy where privacy could not be assumed. Conclusion – relationship. Not any more, though. There’s a pinprick just here, through that tiny smudge of blood. That smudge isn’t as old as the others, so more recently you’ve had this on display on the wall. Conclusion – relationship over.’

‘You can’t tell things like that from a piece of paper.’

Sitting back down in his chair, Sherlock scrubs a hand over the stubble covering his jaw, ‘Think I just did, didn’t I? I’m sure that was me.’

‘ _How_?’

Sherlock shrugs, ‘Just sort of… happens, really. It’s… like a reflex. I can’t stop it.’ Picking up the tea cup from the side table, he takes a small sip, grimacing at the cold liquid within.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘Of what?’ _Is she talking about the tea?_

‘My case.’

‘Oh, it’s too weird for me. Go to the police; they’re really excellent at dealing with this complicated sort of stuff. Tell them I sent you; that ought to get a reaction.’

‘Please… They won’t help me. I have no-one else to turn to. You’re my last hope.’

‘Really? That’s bad luck, isn’t it?’ He jumps up, striding to the door, throwing it open wide and making an exaggerated gesture towards the hallway, ‘Goodnight. Go away.’

Faith stands, collecting her handbag from the floor, and walking towards the door Sherlock has opened for her. She takes a phone from her bag, flicking through the screens while she tries once more to convince him. ‘Please, take a look. This is my father, Culverton Smith. You may have heard of him.’

Sherlock takes the device from her hand, their fingers making contact for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to rip the doors from the John wing of his mind palace, clean off. The memory rushing at him with the force of another bullet to the chest:

_“Here, use mine.”_

A new phone, engraved on the back, handed to him with the same ease that the owner handed him his friendship. John’s piercing blue eyes, military haircut, and small – almost delicate – hands. The feeling, for the first time in his life, that someone might accept him for who he was. Sherlock remembers the tingling that ran through his body as his fingers grazed John’s, and his overwhelming desire to make it happen again.

Sherlock waves a hand in the air to dispel the image and the memory; a profound sadness crashing over him. There’s moisture in the corner of his eyes when he comes back to himself, and he realises that he’s alone.

He can hear Faith steadily making her way to the door, and that’s when his brain fully engages; all the evening’s observations coming back to him with perfect clarity.

It’s not just the cane that Faith has in common with the John Watson he met on the day preceding the best day of his life. What was the first thing he had noticed about John? What was the one thing that shouted out louder than anything else?

He flies from the room and down the stairs, far quicker than should have been possible in his condition. ‘WAIT!’

Sherlock stops Faith before she opens the door. ‘I’m still catching up with my brain, it’s terribly fast.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Those markings on your skirt. You only get marks like that by trapping the hem in a car door, but they’re on the left-hand side, so you weren’t driving; you were in the passenger seat.’

‘I came in a taxi.’

‘There’s no taxi waiting in the street outside. _That’s_ what I checked when I went to the window. You’ve got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one; and look at you! You didn’t even bring a coat. In this rain? Now, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm; you know, under the sleeve that you keep pulling down.’

‘You… You never saw them.’

‘No, I didn’t. Thank you for confirming my hypothesis. Don’t really need to check that the angle’s consistent with self-harm, do I?’

She looks down at her arm, self-consciously tugging the sleeve further over her hand. ‘I suppose it takes one to know one, Mr. Holmes.’

Sherlock, exhausted, collapses into the chair in the foyer. The two of them stare at each other, as if making an unspoken agreement to ask no further questions, before Sherlock nods once; a silent admission.

‘Chips.’ Sherlock suddenly announces.

‘Chips?’

‘You’re suicidal, you’re allowed chips. Trust me; it’s about the only perk.’

‘No… thank you. I think I should go.’ She turns away, opening the front door to the downpour outside, but Sherlock speaks again before she can leave.

‘Taking your own life. Interesting expression. Taking it from whom? Once it’s over, it’s not you who’ll miss it.’

_He’s lying on the cold concrete outside Bart’s hospital, he can hear John’s unsteady voice_ , _“Let me come through, he’s my friend.”_

‘Your own death is something that happens to everybody else.’

_The wind is whistling across the cold graveyard, making it almost too difficult for him to make out the words_ , _“Sherlock, for me, don’t… be… dead.”_

‘AARGH!’ Sherlock pulls at his hair in frustration, the guilt still eating him up inside. Those images of John will be with him until his dying day, and that’s his penance.

Faith is now kneeling in front of him - when did that happen? She reaches out a hand and tentatively touches Sherlock’s arm. He looks at her, shocked at the human contact, and pulls his arm away.

‘I’m going to take your case. Do you want to know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the one impossible thing you’ve said.’ The light is back behind his eyes; the game is on. ‘You said your life turned on one word.’

‘Yes, the name of the person my father wanted to kill.’

‘That’s the impossible thing, right there. Names aren’t one word. They’re always at least two; Sherlock Holmes, Faith Smith, John Watson, Napoleon Bonaparte… Actually, just Napoleon would do.’  
  
‘Okay, I got it wrong. It wasn’t only one word; it can’t have been.’

‘Yet you remember, quite distinctly, that your whole life turned around on one word, so that happened, I don’t doubt it, but how can that word be a name – a name you instantly recognised, that tore your world apart?’  


‘I don’t know.’

‘Neither do I. But I will.’ He leads her back to the open door, handing her an umbrella from one of the coat hooks. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Faith exits, opening the umbrella above her, before pausing once more. ‘Mr. Holmes? One more thing… How did you that I wasn’t… um… getting any?’

‘It’s all on here.’ He pulls the note from his pocket, pointing to a large rust coloured stain in the centre, ‘Look at the bloodstains. This one comes from the very first night; you can see the pen marks over it. I think you discovered that pain stimulated your memory, so you tried again later. I’m no expert, but I assume that since your lover failed to notice an increasing number of scars over a period of months, that the relationship was no longer intimate.’

‘How do you know he didn’t notice?’

‘Oh, well, because he would have done something about it. Wouldn’t he? Isn’t that what you people do?’

‘Well, that’s interesting. You’re not what I expected. You’re… nicer’

‘Than who?’

‘Anyone.’

Faith finally walks away into the rain, and Sherlock stays on the threshold with the door open. ‘Anyone?’

_You said your life turned on one word… Names aren’t one word._

‘Anyone!’

**

11.30am and John is already well on his way towards drunk. He’s dropped a glass in the kitchen and is sitting on the floor attempting to sweep the broken pieces into a dustpan. It’s more accurate to say he is spending more time sipping from the other glass in his hand, which nearly becomes the second casualty of the morning when there is suddenly a loud hammering on the door next to him.

‘What the hell?’ John slurs his words as he flinches at the sound, using the cabinet against his back to help him get to his feet. He’s not expecting anyone, and the only person known for turning up without warning is Sherlock; but he wouldn’t announce himself like this when he could just pick the lock, and he’s unlikely to show his face anyhow. Greg always phones before he comes to visit, allowing John the opportunity to decline his company; which he has done consistently for the last few days.

John doesn’t particularly want to answer the door, but the thunderous banging is persistent, and it’s really not helping the pain in his head. Straightening up, he pulls open the door and is stunned to find Molly Hooper with her fist raised, preparing to knock again. For a moment they just look at each other; Molly taking in the terrible state of the damaged man in front of her, and John wondering how on Earth the diminutive pathologist managed to practically shake his door off the hinges.

Molly barges past him in a sudden flurry of motion, waiting for him to turn to face her. She’s angry; her face is red and there are deep frown lines on her forehead, marring her usual youthful skin; her mousy brown hair is frizzy and unstyled, and her floral shirt is buttoned incorrectly. She came here in a hurry. John is proud of himself for noticing the details – clearly he’s not _that_ drunk.

‘John Watson, this is not good enough!’ She yells with a ferociousness he would not have believed her capable of. ‘I know you are grieving, and I won’t pretend to understand what you are going through, or what _the hell_ is going on, but there is a tiny little girl dying in the hospital, all alone because her father is a drunk!’

John’s head is spinning, and he grabs hold of the kitchen to table to anchor himself, ‘She’s not -’

‘Don’t. I’ve had enough of this. You and Sherlock both need to grow up and learn how to deal with things. Just… Just get yourself to the hospital before it’s too late. They’re talking about turning off her life support, and if you aren’t there, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

Molly stares him down, daring him to argue with her. When no response is forthcoming, she pushes back past him again, knocking him off balance. She throws the door open so hard it bounces off the stop, before spinning back to face him.

‘Did you know he’s using again?’

John stares at her blankly, in his impaired state he is momentarily lost by the shift in conversation, still trying to wrap his head around the news about Mary’s baby. When Molly’s words about Sherlock eventually register, he feels a burning anger in the pit of his stomach and thinks he might be sick. ‘Seriously? That is just fucking typical Sherlock, isn’t it?’ He laughs, but there is no humour to it, ‘You know what? Fuck him. He might as well have let Mary shoot him.’ The vitriol is a shock even to himself. It’s not that he wants Sherlock dead, far from it, but the thought of him throwing his life away, leaving John completely alone, is somewhat galling.

Molly looks shocked and rushes through the door, leaving it wide open in her wake. John furiously slams it shut before feeling dizzy and resting his head against it. His striped flannel dressing gown is hanging off one shoulder, revealing a stained white t-shirt beneath, that clearly hasn’t been changed in more than a few days. Molly’s words reverberate in his head, and with a starling clarity he knows she’s right. He’s not doing a good enough job. How many people has he let down? His daughter, his wife, his best friend. Even Molly and Greg are paying the price for his fuck ups. Something has got to change.

Pouring his alcohol down the sink, he sets about preparing the coffee machine to brew while he takes a much-needed shower.

**

At first, he thinks he’s too late; Molly and Greg are both there, along with a doctor and nurse. The detective inspector looks as though he has been at the hospital all night; the tell-tale dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and the wrinkled suit from too many hours sitting in an uncomfortable chair. Molly holds the tiny infant in her arms, her eyes bright with unshed tears. They look like a family, and as John approaches, he’s unsure whether he has any right to be with them, despite having spent nine months believing this child was his.

He has showered, shaved, and dressed for the first time in a week, and after two cups of industrial strength coffee he finally feels like a partially functioning human being. His hands have a slight tremor, his body craving a drink, but John is determined to stand firm on his decision to quit.

Molly readjusts the child in her arms, with the aim to pass her over to John, but the doctor signals his request for a private conversation, and the pair move over to the corner of the room.

‘Dr. Watson. I know we have spoken in detail on the phone this morning, but I wanted to confirm a few points in person, and get your signature on this consent form. In the absence of the parents, any family members, and the emergency contact – a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the hospital had made the decision to remove your daughter’s life support. The machines were due to be turned off this morning, but then I received your call. Of course, you can argue this decision, if you wish, but as a doctor yourself, and considering the prognosis, I’m sure you will agree that it is the best course of action for her.’

‘Yes… I… As we said earlier…’ John flounders as it dawns on him exactly what he is here to do. ‘Can I have some time alone with her?’

‘Of course. One of the nurses will disconnect the wires for you, then we will give you some space.’ He places a hand on John’s arm, ‘You have my condolences, Doctor.’

When John returns, Greg pulls him into an awkward embrace. There are no words that can make this moment any easier, so he simply holds him until the nurse has completed her task.

When Molly hands the baby over to him she looks so tiny in his arms; swaddled in a cream blanket, the colour highlighting how pale she is. The wires and breathing apparatus have been removed, and this is the first time John has seen her like this. Vulnerable. Greg takes Molly’s arm and leads her away to give John some privacy.

‘Hello, sweetheart, it’s your dad…’ His voice cracks on the word, and the tears fill his eyes so suddenly, it’s as if a pipe has burst. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, love. I’m so, so sorry.’ Two tears escape the confines of his sockets and fall onto her forehead, but she doesn’t open her eyes. John holds her tight against his chest as he sobs silently, the moisture hitting the lino like raindrops. When he looks up at the ceiling in a futile effort to staunch the flow, a figure by the door appears in his field of vision.

Sherlock is leaning against the wall, looking worse than John has ever seen him. His blue suit and matching shirt are far too big for his significantly thinner frame, his jaw is darkened by more than a five-o-clock shadow (John didn’t think it was possible for him to grow facial hair), and his curls are clearly unwashed. He’s twitching slightly and his eyes are glazed, but he’s looking straight at John.

John feels the familiar anger rise in him once again, aimed squarely at his former friend. Anger that Sherlock has the gall to be here, after everything he’s done. But now is not the time for those feelings. John isn’t ready to talk to Sherlock, he’s not sure he ever will be, but at this suspended moment in time, he can accept his presence.

As little Catherine Watson takes her last breaths, John looks into her godfather’s eyes and nods once; a silent thank you for his willingness to be there in her final moments.

Looking down at the girl he never got the chance to know, John hears the doctor make the pronouncement; time of death, 12.46pm -

29th January.


End file.
